LITTLE  SHELLS 


MANY  SHORES. 


BY 

MRS.  E.   A.  W.   HOPKINS. 


SAN    FRANCISCO: 
BACON  &  COMPANY,  PRINTERS,  EXCELSIOR  OFFICE, 

No.  536  Clay  Street. 
1872. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  eighteen  hundred  and  seventy-two, 

BY  MRS.    E.    A.    W.    HOPKINS, 
In  the  office  of  the  Librarian  of 'Congress,  at  Washington,  D,  C. 


PREFACE. 


TO     THE     SUBSCRIBE ES    IN     ADVANCE. 


A  severe  family  affliction  prevented  the  publication  of  this 
work  in  April — as  I  had  promised  you.  Out  of  the  delay,  the 
increased  necessity  for  economy,  and  difficulties  which  could 
not  properly  be  explained  on"  this  page,  has  arisen  the  change 
of  publishers. 

The  Poems  contained  in  this  volume  are  selections  from 
manuscripts,  old  and  new,  and  clippings  of  my  own,  from  jour- 
nals to  which  I  have  contributed  for  many  years,  in  some  half 
a  dozen  States  and  under  a  dozen  signatures — "  Mrs.  C.  B.  H.," 
"E.  A.  W.  H.,"  etc.,  etc. 

In  selecting  for  the  book,  I  have  remembered  that  my 
friends  are  persons  of  varied  attainments  and  tastes ;  and 
while  I  aimed  to  please  many,  have  hoped  to  offend  none. 

Perhaps  the  volume  may  not  inaptly  be  compared  to  one  of 
our  California  highways — with  its  big  and  little  stones,  its 
sticks  and  straws,  old  tin  cans,  and  broken  bottles  ;  with  here 
and  there  a  tiny  grain  of  gold.  As  it  is,  I  commend  it  to  your 
generosity. 

AUTHORESS. 


INDEX. 


PiOB. 

LITTLE  SHELLS  FROM  MANY  SHORES 9 

EVENING  AND  MORNING  OF  THE  BATTLE  OF  ANTIETAM     ....  10 

THE  HERDSMEN'S  "  GOOD  NIGHT  ! " 16 

THE  SILENT  PASSENGER .  19 

LIFE 24 

POETS  LOVE  POETS 28 

I  Do  NOT  LIKE  TO  HEAR  HIM  PRAY 31 

WOMAN  THE  FOE  OF  WOMAN 34 

THE  UNSEEN 36 

CREEDS 40 

A  PRAYER 43 

CRUSHED  HOPES 45 

PLANTING  A  TREE 47 

PLANTING  A  TREE  "THE  WRONG  END  UP" 48 

BREAD  AND  BUTTER 50 

THE  SIGN  OF  THE  WIDOW  McCREE        ........  59 

THE  WASHING  BILL 65 

BETTER  OUT  OF  THE  WORLD  THAN  THE  FASHION 75 

TWIN  SPIRITS         .                '.,...  77 

SPIES  !  SPIES  ! !  SPIES  !  !  ! 79 

THE  WORLD 81 

NOBODY 84 

"  UPS  AND  DOWNS  "              86 

THE  THIRST  FOR  FAME            88 

How  TO  PLEASE  EVERYBODY       .• 91 

BEFORE  AND  AFTER  MARRIAGE *  94 

"  O  !  IT  is  HARD,  LINK  AFTER  LINK  " 99 

WHEN  WILL  THE  MORNING  BE? 101 


VI  INDEX. 

9A.QM. 

NAY,  NEVER  SAY,  u  POOR  1 " 103 

"  ROOT  ON  !  " 106 

NATURE 108 

FAREWELL! .        .        .        .        .  no 

THE  CARELESS  WORD •«..        .  m 

LIFE'S  UNDER  CURRENT 113 

GOD  OVER  ALL 116 

SUNSHINE  FRIENDS, 117 

THE  SECRET .  118 

EARLY  MARRIAGES           120 

"!T  is  NOTHING  TO  DIE  IF  YOU'RE  NOTED"' 121 

"FOUND  DEAD!" 123 

"SERPENTS  IN  THE  GRASS"        ....,.'..-  125 

HEART  LIFE  IN  CALIFORNIA ,  126 

CONFIDANTS  1 129 

NOBODY  WANTS  You  LONG     ......        (        ...  131 

A  PRAYER  FOR  PEACE 133 

MODERN  CHARITY             134 

THE  CRITIC            '.  135 

THE  PRAYER  OF  WASHINGTON 136 

How  CAN  I  FORGIVE? 139 

THE  POET'S  LOT 140 

LIFE'S  WORK  is  NEVER  DONE .*  142 

THE  PASSING  YEAR 145 

MY  WESTERN  HOME 147 

"THE  HEART  WAS  so  HOLLOW  INSIDE" 150 

THE  CITY  OF  THE  FLEAS             154 

"SOMETHING  THAT  WAS  MY  MOTHER'S" 158 

FALL  OF  THE  CHARTER  OAK 163 

THE  HUMAN  BROW 165 

"I  THANK  THEM  FOR  THEIR  SCORN" 168 

LETTERS 170 

WHAT  Do  WE  STRIVE  FOR? 173 

GREAT  MEN  NEVER  DIE 174 

THE  DRAYMAN'S  HORSE 175 

THEY  WANT  TO  KNOW 179 

"ToM  JONES" 182 


INDEX.  vii 

PAOB. 

"  SPIRIT  RAPPINGS  " 207 

DOCTOR  GRAY'S  LECTURE  ON  PHRENOLOGY 220 

RETRIBUTION 230 

THE  THREE  BRIDES 242 

THE  BATTLE  FIELD 264 

LIFE'S  CHANGES 273 

WYOMING 277 

HONOR  OF  LABOR 283 

DEACON  HEZEKIAH 287 

REV.  JOHN  ELLIOT  PREACHING  TO  THE  AMERICAN  INDIANS          .        .        .  289 

THE  GREENHOUSE  PLANT 291 

To  AN  UNKNOWN  FRIEND            295 

DUSTY  CALIFORNIA 297 

HOME  TO  THE  SICK 299 


€RAI 
•THE 
ERSITY 
OF 
•  FOP;. 

LITTLE    SHELLS    FROM    MANY 
SHORES. 


ITTLE   SHELLS  from  many  strands, 
Bring  I  you  with  loving  hands ; 
Rosy  shells  of  pleasures  fled — 
Broken  shells  of  hopes  long  dead, 
Silvery  shells  of  life's  proud  prime — 
Tear-stained  shells  of  later  time, 
Gathered  with  a  smooth,  young  brow — 
Gathered  when  as  dark  as  now ; 
Looking  back  to  long  ago, 
Forward  through  the  falling  snow, 
Almost  where  the  two  worlds  meet, 
Lo  !  I  lay  them  at  your  feet. 


10  LITTLE  SHELLS. 


EVENING   AND    MORNING   OF   THE   BATTLE 
OF  ANTIETAM. 

"The  hostile  lines  lay  close  to  each  other;  their  pickets  so  near  that  six  rebels 
were  captured  during  the  night.     The  great  battle  commenced  early  next  day." 

A  corn-field  here,  a  wheat-field  there, 

A  hill-side  green  and  gray, 
A  graceful  wood,  a  meadow  fair, 

A  town,  a  public  way ; 
A  river  spanned  by  bridges  three, 
Four  miles  of  water,  wood  and  lea, 

In  smiling  sunset  lay. 

As  cities  in  the  far-off  light, 

Our  vision  doubts  as  real ; 
Now  looming  o'er  the  sea  of  white 

With  spires  of  glittering  steel ; 


BATTLE   OF   AN T IE T AM.  tl 

Now  lost  beneath  a  darkling  wave, 
Now  rising  from  their  shadow  grave, 
Then  gone,  as  all  ideal. 

As  evening  crossed  with  tempest  bars 

A  moment,  then  a  glow, 
And  bursting  with  her  myriad  stars 

From  heavy  clouds  below  ; 
Two  armies  rise,  and  fall,  and  pass  ; 
A  surge  of  ink — a  wave  of  glass — 

And  melt  away  as  snow. 

One  is  the  North ;  resolved  and  stern, 

She  spans  those  vales  and  steeps, 
The  lightnings  of  her  anger  burn, 

While  love  reluctant  weeps  ; 
She  hears  to-morrow's  dismal  tramp, 
Just  o'er  yon  Orient 's  dark  and  damp, 

That  counts  her  crimsoned  heaps. 

One  is  the  South ;  impassioned,  wild, 
With  hot  and  feverish  breath ; 


LITTLE  SHELLS. 

The  friend  estranged,  the  wayward  child, 

That  seeks  her  mother's  death ; 
With  desperate  threats  and  bloodshot  eye, 
And  murmuring  still  her  battle  cry, 
She  halts  upon  the  heath. 

Soft  as  a  gentle  mother's  thrall, 

That  all  her  babes  entwines  ; 
Soft  as  the  angel  footsteps  fall 

When  day's  bright  orb  declines ; 
Came  sleep,  and  showered  leaves  of  balm 
O'er  North  and  South — her  holy  calm 

Encircling  all  their  lines. 

The  white-lipped  Morn  rebukes  the  dark, 

And  pensive  smiles  again ; 
Ascending  sings  the  early  lark, 

And  skims  the  upper  main ; 
Soft  peeping  through  a  clouding  veil, 
The  sunbeams  come,  aslant  and  pale, 

And  kiss  the  dew-gemmed  plain. 


BATTLE  OF  ANTIETAM. 

Sons  of  the  North  ! — sons  of  the  South  ! 

As  brothers,  close  ye  slept ; 
The  same  tree-shadow  touched  ye  both, 

As  East  at  eve  it  crept ; 
The  same  good  angels  watched  ye  there, 
Then,  lifting  up  for  each  a  prayer, 

On  Mercy's  threshold  wept. 

Each  silver  thread  that  spans  the  blue, 

And  trembles  on  the  corn, 
Rekindling  all  the  hills  anew, 

Salutes  ye,  "brothers  born  ;" 
One  father's  own  electric  thrill 
In  all  your  veins,  unites  ye  still, 

O  hearts  asunder  torn  ! 

How  can  ye  wake  to  strike  again, 

Or  fan  your  bosom's  hate  ? 
Why  doom  afresh  to  grief  and  pain 

One  last  night's  sleeping  mate  ? 
Oh  !  by  one  country's  lingering  woes ; 


I4  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

Oh  !  by  one  Saviour's  dying  throes, 

We  pray — we  warn  ye — wait ! 

• 

As  trickling  drops  of  homestead  wells 
When  rise  the  buckets  slow ; 

Or  murmuring  bees  in  flowery  dells, 
Is  fair  Antietam's  flow. 

But — hark  !  a  war  note's  dismal  sound  ! 

Air,  earth  and  heaven  at  once  rebound, 
And  ring  it  to  and  fro. 

It  was,  as  if  all  fearful  things 

In  every  dark  retreat, 
Had  started  up  with  flapping  wings, 

And  tramped  with  pond'rous  feet ; 
As  if  all  discords,  born  of  hell, 
Condensed  in  one  wild,  thrilling  yell, 

Kept  time  with  heavy  beat. 

It  was,  as  if  all  earthly  power 
Had  hardened  into  stone, 


BATTLE   OF  ANTIETAM. 

While  hideous  Murder  ruled  the  hour, 

And  laughed  upon  her  throne ; 
As  if  all  Heaven  looked  down  and  smiled, 
While  human  blood  the  earth  defiled, 
And  shimmered  in  the  sun  ! 


1 6  LITTLE  SHELLS. 


THE   HERDSMEN'S   "GOOD   NIGHT!" 

When  'mong  the  Alpine  hills  the  sun 

Hath  left  the  vales  in  shade  below, 
And  glimmers  like  a  jeweled  crown 

Upon  the  arching  cliffs  of  snow : 

The  herdsman  of  the  loftiest  height 

Takes  up  his  horn,  and  shouts  aloud  : 
"  Praise  God,  the  Lord  !  "  and  swift  as  light 

Comes  echoing  back,  "  Praise  God — praise  God  !" 

A  hundred  herdsmen  catch  the  strain, 
And  shout  the  words  with  horns  anew ; 

The  rocks  take  up  the  loud  refrain, 
And  solemn  caves  repeat  it  too. 

Along  the  hills  the  cadence  steals, 

And  quivers  o'er  unnumbered  streams, 


THE  HElWtflfEN'S  GOOD   NIGHT. 

Till  every  heart  the  influence  feels, 
And  nature's  self  hath  holier  dreams. 

"  Praise  God,  the  Lord !  "  O  man  of  years, 

For  fearless  heart,  and  tireless  hand, 
For  gladsome  hours,  for  sorrow's  tears, 
And  faith  to  see  the  "better  land." 

"  Praise  Him,"  O  maid,  for  beauty's  blush ; 

"  Praise  Him,"  O  youth,  for  thou  art  strong  : 
"  Praise  Him,"  O  matron,  for  the  hush 
Of  peace  upon  thy  hearth  so  long. 

"  Praise  Him,"  O  child,  for  sky  and  flowers, 
For  verdant  moss  and  clambering  vines, 
For  love  that  guards  thy  mountain  bowers, 
And  sets  thy  feet  their  boundary  lines. 

Lo  !  deeper  shadows  climb  the  rocks, 
And  dewy  night  has  set  them  there ; 

Uncovered  as  their  silent  flocks, 

They  bow  their  heads  in  secret  prayer. 


1 8  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

All  nature  joins  ;  with  reverent  hush 

The  mountain  wind  suspends  her  breath  ; 

Young  leaves,  that  fluttered  on  the  bush 
In  ceaseless  play,  are  still  as  death. 

"  Good-night !  "  again  the  horns  resound, 

And  many  a  voice  as  one  replies, 
Till  echo,  circling  round  and  round, 
In  silvery  cadence  sweetly  dies. 


THE  SILENT  PASSENGER. 


THE   SILENT   PASSENGER. 

With  its  inanimate  and  living  freight 
The  noisy  train  whirls  on. 

And  happy  hearts 

Beat  lightly  as  the  buzzing  wheels  speed  by 
The  meadows  and  the  corn  ;  the  orchard  fair, 
With  all  its  goodly  trees  of  blushing  fruit, 
Its  foliage  spinning  ribbons  as  we  fly, 
Its  fence  a  quivering  cord  ;  the  homestead  meek, 
Its  windows  muslin-draped  and  wreathed  with  vines. 
The  lazy  house-dog,  sleeping  in  the  sun, 
Upstarts  a  moment  to  his  feet,  with  one 
Deep,  sonorous  bark,  and  then  two  lesser  notes, 
And  folds  his  limbs  again.     The  maid  steals  out, 
With  broom  in  hand  and  apron  o'er  her  head, 
To  see  this  daily  show,  which  comes  and  goes 
As  the  cloud-shadow  flitting  o'er  the  grain, 
As  the  loud  thunder  shaking  all  the  plain. 
And  here  the  village,  in  its  white  and  green, 


20  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

Its  lettered  doors,  its  awnings,  and  its  wealth 

Of  shawls  and  ginghams  fluttering  in  the  wind, 

Comes  smiling  up  to  meet  us  in  good  haste ; 

The  whistle  shrill  cuts  sharply  on  the  ear ; 

The  brakeman  's  at  his  post ;  the  ponderous  wheels 

Upon  their  axles  turn  with  lessening  speed, 

And  slowly  cease  to  sound.     The  school-boy  stands 

And  counts  the  number  of  the  graceless  cars, 

With  sweet,  blue  eyes  a-stare ;  the  mountaineer, 

Who  for  this  sight  alone  has  come  to  town, 

Pushes  his  way  along,  exclaims  and  smiles. 

Lo  !  what  a  crowd  is  gathering  where  we  halt, 

A  pleasant  show  of  faces,  earnest  all, 

And  glistening  eyes  which  speak  a  "  welcome  home  ! " 

Seek  out  the  friends  so  dear — the  new-arrived. 

Hands  meet  in  friendly  clasp,  and  trembling  lips 

Give  blessed  recognition,  murmuring  low. 

The  walking  groups  move  off;  there,  too,  upspring 
Light,  joyous  footsteps  to  the  waiting  seat 
In  the  old  family  carriage — that  is  gone. 


THE  XT  LENT  PASSENGER.  2I 


We,  too,  are  happier,  though  we  know  them  not. 

For  homes  await  in  distance  even  us, 

E'en  us — poor  travelers  !  we  shall  soon  be  there. 

But  see,  as  breaks  the  close  and  motley  crowd, 

Those  wagons  blocking  up  the  village  street. 

Behold  !  that  hearse  with  plumes  of  inky  hue, 

With  solemn  drapery  and  steeds  of  white. 

It  backs  toward  the  train,  and  careful  men 

Lift  down  a  burden  thence  ;  and  soft  within 

They  set  it  down  in  silence ;  and  a  moan, 

A  bitter  moan  of  human  agony, 

Unheard  amid  the  earlier  rush  and  press, 

Arrests  the  ear,  as  from  the  car  behind 

A  group  of  mourners,  wrapped  in  dusky  weeds, 

Come  forth,  and  pass  beneath  our  window  slow. 

To  meet  them  comes  another  stricken  group, 

Who  waited  in  the  coaches  on  the  left. 

Two  hoary  heads  bowed  with  the  weight  of  grief, 

Two  strong  young  men,  three  women  in  their  prime, 

Whose  tears  flow  fast,  whose  forms  like  fragile  reeds 


22  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

Bow  to  the  blast  of  woe.     Those  meeting  groups 
Glide  in  together,  as  long-severed  streams 
That  burst  their  banks  and  seaward  roll  as  one. 

Yet,  in  their  sorrow,  one  doth  claim  their  care 
To  whom  all  turn  with  tender,  deep  regard — 
A  girl-like  creature,  robed  in  widow's  weeds, 
With  modest  beauty  gleaming  through  her  tears. 
"  Our  daughter  " — "  sister  " — "  be  our  hearts  thy  home ;" 
"  Thy  Henry  "— "  mine  !  "  aoh,  God  !  support  us  all ! " 
She's  gently  folded  to  his  father's  breast, 
Her  young  head  nestles  in  his  mother's  arms, 
His  brothers  clasp  her  to  their  heart  of  hearts, 
His  sisters  sweetly  kiss  her  tears  away. 
"  Poor  Henry ! "  passes  round  from  lip  to  lip 
Till  strangers  weep  to  hear. 

"All  hands  aboard  !  " 

The  strong  steed  gathers  up  his  slackened  might, 
And  forward  springs  again.     Behind  us  far 
That  hearse  is  moving,  with  its  mournful  train 
Of  aching  bosoms  to  "  poor  Henry's  "  home — 
His  boyhood's  happy  home. 


THE  8ILEXT   PARREXOEH.  23 

So  goeth  life. 

Its  countless  travelers  all  as  one  rush  on, 
Yet  each  within  his  bosom  holds  a  world — 
A  world  of  joys  no  other  understands, 
A  world  of  cares  no  other  shoulders  bear, 
A  world  of  griefs  sealed  at  their  fountain-head, 
No  other  hands  can  trouble  in  their  depths, 
Nor  eyes  can  weep  away. 

And  breaking  hearts 

And  pulseless  bosoms  mingle  with  the  throng, 
Unquestioned  and  unknown.     The  widow  mourns 
For  her  lost  love  alone ;  the  aged  sire 
And  stricken  brothers  feel  their  griefs  apart ; 
The  mother's  "  Henry  "  hath  her  visit  lone, 
Her  sorrowing,  last  "good-night,"  ere  "dust  to  dust ! " 
She  for  the  living  lives  and  smiles  again, 
But  o'er  her  dead  in  stealthy  silence  weeps. 

Forever  onward  rolls  the  living  tide, 
Though  drop  by  drop  is  lost  beside  the  way ; 
Cold  Business  scarcely  falters  in  his  speed 
To  leave  the  Silent  Passengers  at  home. 


LITTLE  XHELLX. 


LIFE. 

When  first  the  mother  clasps  her  child 

With  all  a  mother's  joy — 
A  hallowed  guest,  that  undefiled 

And  velvet-fingered  boy ; 
When  first  she  feels  the  throbbing  heart 

Which  on  her  bosom  leans, 
And  kisses  off  the  tears  that  start 

As  soon  as  life  begins  ; 
Then,  could  her  vision  pierce  the  sheet 

Enfolding  all  his  doom  ; 
Perchance  to  watch  his  restless  feet 

Throughout  a  path  of  gloom  ; 
Could  she  foresee  the  thorns  and  snares 

That  wait  his  hurrying  steps, 
That  toil  must  come,  and  anxious  cares 

Seal  darkly  brow  and  lips ; 


Could  she  foresee  his  heart  astrain 

Till  quivers  all  its  chords, 
While  human  monsters  mock  its  pain, 

With  keen,  insulting  words  ; 
Would  she  not  kiss  her  baby's  brow 

With  wild,  beseeching  prayer, 
That  God  would  take  the  darling  now 

Home  to  His  heavenly  care  ? 
Home,  ere  a  drift  of  passion  crossed 

That  forehead's  placid  snow — 
Home,  ere  a  wave  of  anguish  tossed 

The  bosom  lake  below  ? 

When  first  the  father  sees  with  pride 

His  petted  lamb  progress 
In  knowledge,  growing  at  his  side 

To  statelier  loveliness ; 
With  all  the  ways,  so  sweet  and  coy, 

Which  render  childhood  dear, 
Ere  nature  blends  with  art's  alloy 

Our  household  jewels  here  ; 


26  LITTLE   SHELLS. 

Had  he  the  power,  for  once,  to  tear 

The  veil  from  future  years, 
And  see  that  hearthstone  idol  bear 

Its  load  of  grief  and  fears ; 
Before  his  dearest  hopes  were  crushed, 

His  glories  turned  to  dust ; 
Ere  scorn  his  notes  of  gladness  hushed, 

Or  treachery  mocked  his  trust ; 
E'en  as  he  clasped  that  clinging  one 

Yet  closer  to  his  breast, 
How  would  he  pray  the  morning's  sun 

Might  shine  on  him  at  rest — 
At  rest,  the  things  that  perish  here 

Beneath  the  friendly  sod — 
Mute  lips — clasped  hands — the  shroud — the  bier- 

The  spirit  safe  with  God. 

What  art  thou,  Life?     A  fearful  race 

For  kings  and  slaves  of  kings ; 
A  weary  hand,  a  fruitless  chase 

For  moth  and  shadow-wings  ; 


LTFK.  27 

The  rainbow  gilds  the  hours  before, . 

To  fade  whene'er  we  come  ;  ' 

The  darkness  of  the  past,  in  store, 

Looms  forward  to  the  tomb ; 
No  bosom  life  is  e'er  revealed, 

Till  all  its  hours  are  sped. 
Oh  !  tearful  history,  wisely  sealed 

Till  all  that  dies  is  dead  ! 
Then,  where  no  earthly  discord  jars 

Upon  the  calm  sublime, 
The  angel  of  the  eternal  stars 

Unclasps  the  Book  of  Time. 
"  The  Roll  of  Time  !  "  his  voice  proclaims — 

The  startled  worlds  bow  down ; 
The  nations  answer  to  their  names, 

And  every  soul  his  own. 


28  LITTLE   S 


POETS   LOVE   POETS. 

Poets,  in  your  bosoms  hiding 

Love  no  other  bosoms  feel, 
Lone  and  wearily,  abiding 

'Midst  the  hearts  to  you  of  steel ; 
Looking  back  o'er  time's  dark  surges, 

Dreaming  of  the  years  to  come, 
Till  from  fancy's  mould  emerges 

Wondrous  forms  of  joy  or  gloom, 
And  the  present  sweet,  or  sorrow, 
Only  rims  the  great  to-morrow. 

Poets  by  the  world  derided, 
Crowded,  jostled,  yet  alone, 

Link  from  kindred  link  divided, 
Wed  to  souls  of  other  tone — - 

Souls  that  pity  your  endeavor, 


POET8  LOVE  POETS.  29 

Now,  to  set  aflame  the  spark 
Which  shall  struggle  on  forever 

Through  the  future's  gleam  and  dark ; 
Souls  that  chafe  to  see  ye  keeping 
Vigils  when  the  world  is  sleeping. 

Poets  from  the  world  inditing 

"  Thoughts  that  breathe  and  words  that  burn/* 
Poets,  all  too  meek  for  writing, 

Singing  in  your  heart's  deep  urn ; 
Night-dew  on  your  foreheads  glistening, 

Reverent  treading  path  and  sod  ; 
Child-like  on  the  green-sward  listening 

To  the  under-tones  of  God  ; 
Watchers  in  the  dim  room  sitting, 
Deeds  your  prayers,  where  life  is  flitting. 

Poets  hear  !  and  answer  truly : 

Whatsoe'er  your  names  or  lots, 
Whomsoever  your  friends,  that  duly 

Share  your  palaces  or  cots  ; 


3o  LITTLE  SHELLS. 


Maids,  or  men  to  love  that  win  you — 
Mother,  sister,  brother,  wife, 

Lives  there  not  one  cord  within  you, 
Deep  within  your  inmost  life, 

Voiceless,  tender,  sad  and  lonely, 

Whispering  "  love  "  to  poets  only  ? 


I  DO  NOT  LIKE    TO  HE  An  HTM  FJ1AY. 


I   DO   NOT   LIKE  TO   HEAR   HIM   PRAY. 

I  do  not  like  to  hear  him  pray 

Who  loans  at  twenty-five  per  cent, 
For  then  I  think  the  borrower  may 

Be  pressed  to  pay  for  food  and  rent 
And  in  that  Book  we  all  should  heed, 

Which  says  the  lender  shall  be  blest, 
As  sure  as  I  have  eyes  to  read, 

It  does  not  say  "  take  interest." 

I  do  not  like  to  hear  him  pray 

On  bended  knee  about  an  hour, 
For  grace  to  spend  aright  the  day, 

Who  knows  his  neighbor  has  no  flour  ; 
I'd  rather  see  him  go  to  mill 

And  buy  that  luckless  brother  bread, 
And  see  his  children  eat  their  fill, 

And  laugh  beneath  their  humble  shed. 


LITTLE  SHELLS. 

I  do  not  like  to  hear  him  pray 

"  Let  blessings  on  the  widow  be  !  " 
Who  never  seeks  her  home,  to  say 

"  If  want  o'ertakes  you,  come  to  me." 
I  hate  the  prayer  so  loud  and  long 

That  's  uttered  for  the  "orphan's  weal," 
By  him  who  sees  him  crushed  by  wrong, 

And  only  with  the  lips  doth  feel. 

I  do  not  like  to  hear  him  pray 

With  face  as  long  as  any  rail, 
Who  never  means  his  debts  to  pay, 

Because  he  can't  be  put  in  jail ; 
For  caution  asks  the  written  bond, 

But  friendship  trusts  the  word  alone ; 
And  he  's  a  knave  where'er  he  's  found, 

Who  never  comes  the  debt  to  own. 

I  do  not  like  to  hear  her  pray, 

With  jewelled  ears  and  silken  dress, 


/  DO  NOT  LIKE    TO  HEAR  HIM  PliAY.  33 


Whose  washerwoman  toils  all  day, 
And  then  is  asked  to  "  work  for  less." 

Such  pious  "  shavers  "  I  despise  ! 
With  folded  hands  and  airs  demure 

They  lift  to  Heaven  their  "  angel "  eyes, 
Then  steal  the  earnings  of  the  poor ! 

I  do  not  like  such  soulless  prayers ; 

If  wrong,  I  hope  to  be  forgiven ; 
No  angel's  wing  them  upward  bears — 

They  're  lost  a  million  miles  from  Heaven. 
I  do  not  like  long  prayers  to  hear, 

And  studied,  from  the  lips  depart ; 
Our  Father  bends  a  ready  ear — 

Let  words  be  few — He  hears  the  heart. 


34  LITTLE  SHELLS. 


WOMAN   THE    FOE   OF   WOMAN. 

Woman  the  foe  of  woman — can  it  be  ? 
Woman  should  be  all  love,  all  charity ; 
No  dark  suspicion  through  her  soul  should  steal- 
She  should  go  forth  to  comfort  and  to  heal ; 
To  cheer  the  tempted  as  they  strive  to  stand, 
And  if  they  fall,  to  give  a  helping  hand  ; 
To  scatter  flowers  in  the  path  of  woe, 
Is  woman's  mission  to  the  world  below. 
Should  she  fling  serpents  in  a  sister's  face, 
Or  her  pure  lips  be  linked  with  her  disgrace  ? 

God  doth  uphold  thee,  who  is  over  all — 
He,  in  His  wisdom,  lets  thy  sister  fall ; 
God  is  the  judge  of  both — let  her  beware, 
And  glory  not,  whose  feet  escape  the  snare ! 


WOMAN  THE  FOE   OF   WOMAN. 

Hast  thou  not  sinned  ?  say,  in  some  evil  hour, 
Has  no  wild  passion  sought  thy  bosom's  bower  ? 
Has  no  black  line  that  bosom's  whiteness  crossed  ? 
No  waking  virtue  in  a  dream  been  lost  ? 
Hast  thou  not  sinned  ?     O,  ponder  and  defer ; 
When  thou  art  pure ',  first  cast  a  stone  at  her. 

Woman  relentless,  iron-browed  and  stern, 
Watching  her  sister's  steps  at  every  turn 
Of  life's  sad  way,  with  loud,  indignant  calls, 
Bidding  the  world  to  "  brand  her  "  as  she  falls, 
Is  not  true  woman,  though  she  bears  her  name, 
For  the  true  woman  mourns  her  sister's  shame, 
Steals  to  her  chamber  when  the  world's  asleep, 
Not  to  upbraid  her,  but  with  her  to  weep ; 
Kisses  the  lips  by  agony  made  white, 
And  whispers  "Jesus"  with  her  soft  good-night. 


36  LITTLE  b'HELLti, 


THE   UNSEEN. 

A  whisper  in  the  inward  ear, 

As  south  winds  in  the  flowers  sigh ; 

A  vision  floating  in  the  clear 
Cerulean  of  the  spirit's  eye ; 

Foretasting  of  a  coming  bliss, 

Foreshadowing  of  a  bitterness, 
A  call  when  none  is  nigh. 

A  strain  of  music  soft  and  low, 

As  morning  breaks  the  web  of  dreams, 

And  forms  that  rested  long  ago 
Go  out,  as  in  the  daylight  streams ; 

It  was  their  breath  that  swept  our  hair, 

They  smiled  and  beckoned  in  the  air, 
Then  hid  in  morning's  beams. 


THE   UNSEEN.  37 


As  noon  appears,  with  florid  face 

And  stifled  breath  we  seek  the  shade, 
To  muse  in  some  sequestered  place, 

Which  love  or  grief  hath  sacred  made ; 
Where  murmuring  brook  and  singing  bird 
Alone  the  waves  of  sound  have  stirred, 

Since  verdure  clothed  the  glade. 

E'en  there,  as  zephyrs  part  the  leaves, 

And  sweep  the  blossoms  with  their  wings, 

We  hear  a  voice  \  it  chides  or  grieves, 
It  whispers  low,  it  softly  sings ; 

A  shadow  trembles  on  the  grass, 

We  list  to  hear  a  footstep  pass ; 
What  hand  that  leaflet  flings  ? 

And  oft  as  evening  shadows  steal 

O'er  meadows  green  and  hills  of  brown, 

The  mystic  mingling  with  the  real, 

White  fingers  part  the  Day-God's  crown, 

Familiar  faces  smile  ;  between 
3 

OF  THE  \ 

UNIVERSITY   } 


38  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

The  rosy  sunset's  pencilled  sheen, 
The  loved  and  lost  look  down. 

Yet  gazing  there  with  yearning  sight, 
A  fairy  ship  attracts  the  view ; 

We  see  her  climb  the  waves  of  light ; 
With  gauzy  sails  and  shadowy  crew, 

Fast  onward  o'er  the  darkling  deep 

She  hurries  with  mysterious  sweep, 
And  trackless  leaves  the  blue. 

Fair  wanderer !  whither  goest  thou 
So  stilly  in  the  ethereal  main  ? 

She  makes  no  sign — she's  fading  now — 
Her  crew  have  shrunk  to  specks  again. 

Far  where  the  shimmering  sunset  dies 

Her  sails  fade  out ;  our  weary  eyes 
Seek  her  dim  port  in  vain. 

Oh  !  voices  hushed  so  long  in  death, 

And  forms  beloved  we  've  missed  so  long, 


THE   UN8EEN.  39 


Why  hear  we  still  in  under-breath 
The  floating  fragments  of  your  song  ? 

Ye  live  !  ye  live !  it  must  be  so  ; 

Unseen  ye  come,  and  whisper  low 
Amidst  the  angel  throng. 


40  LITTLE  SHELLS. 


CREEDS. 

What  countless  creeds  are  based  on  One  who  died, 
Though  all  for  pardon  seek  His  bleeding  side ; 
One  prayer  ascends  from  every  bended  knee, 
'  Our  Father '  help  us,  as  we  trust  in  Thee." 

One  Hand  we  see  in  every  change  below, 
The  winds  obey  Him  and  the  lightnings  know ; 
The  earthquake  comes  obedient  at  His  call, 
The  city  sinks — centurial  columns  fall. 
The  sea  upheaves  a  continent  to  light, 
An  Isle  is  born — another  sinks  in  night ; 
He  "  turns  and  overturns  "  from  pole  to  pole, 
Upholds  the  stars — yet  stoops  to  save  a  soul. 

As  /  have  loved  thee,  even  unto  death, 
Love  thou  thy  brother,  the  Redeemer  saith ; 


41 

Defer  to  him  thy  interest  and  thy  will, 

And  though  he  wound  thee,  by  thou  faithful  still ; 

Rejoice  with  him — in  sorrow  be  thou  there, 

Put  thy  own  shoulder  'neath  his  load  of  care  ; 

If  hungry,  feed  him  ;  is  he  thirsty  ?  give 

From  thy  own  well-spring,  bid  him  drink  and  live. 

Who  is  thy  "  brother  ? "  ponder  well  the  word  ; 
The  poorest  servant  of  the  common  Lord : 
Where'er  he  dwells,  whate'er  his  faith  or  name, 
The  bond  fraternal  holds  ye  both  the  same. 
Let  neither  claim  the  right  to  lead  and  rule, 
Nor  " judge"  his  brother,  nor  pronounce  him  "fool." 
"  As  a  man  thinketh,"  say  ye,  "  so  is  he  ; " 
As  a  man  doeth  so  his  end  shall  be. 
Prove  ihyfait/i  better  by  thy  better  deeds 
Than  his  thou  doubtest,  nor  contend  for  "  creeds." 

Creeds  are  of  earth ;  we  lose  them  in  the  strife 
With  the  last  Foeman  of  our  mortal  life ; 


42  LITTLE  SHELLS. 


One  "  welcome  home  !  "  awaits  the  good  and  pure 
Where  prayers  and  rituals  and  all  tears  are  o'er. 
Jesus  !  thy  jewels,  born  of  every  faith, 
Bear  but  one  value  in  Thy  blood-bought  wreath. 


A  PRAYER. 


A   PRAYER. 

Help  me,  O,  God !  to  bring  at  last  to  Thee 
A  soul  as  pure  as  human  soul  may  be ! 

If  in  the  flush  and  vanity  of  youth 
I  turned  me  lightly  from  the  path  of  truth ; 
O'er  softer  nature  pride's  cold  mantle  hung, 
And  calmly  smiled  when  grief  my  bosom  wrung ; 
Gave  answer  lightly  to  the  child  of  care, 
And  hurried  on  scarce  noting  her  despair  ; 
The  toiling  student  met  with  haughty  brow, 
Nor  said  "  my  brother !  " — God  forgive  me  now ! 
Passed  on,  nor  heard  a  mother's  warning  voice, 
To  festive  pleasures  wildering  glare  and  noise ; 
Bent  low  to  catch  the  whispered  words  of  praise, 
Nor  heeded  Thine  who  claimed  those  better  days  : 


44 


LITTLE  SHELLS. 

Forgive  me,  Thou  who  know'st  the  reckless  beat 
Of  life's  young  pulse,  for  hope  has  proved  a  cheat ! 

Amid  the  scenes  and  cares  of  later  life, 

If  I  have  erred  as  mother,  friend  or  wife ; 

If,  worn  with  toil,  I  Ve  met  in  wayward  mood 

The  bold  inquiry  of  the  kind  and  good  ; 

If,  chained  to  want,  my  heart  has  sighed  in  vain 

For  titled  honors,  and  for  golden  gain  ; 

If,  tired  at  night,  I  Ve  lain  my  aching  head 

With  prayerless  tongue  upon  the  welcome  bed, 

Forgot  the  blessings  of  the  day  and  week, 

And  slept  with  tears  yet  trickling  o'er  my  cheek — 

Tears  wrung  by  anguish  from  the  heart  that  pride 

Locked  up  all  day,  £nd  loosed  at  eventide : 

Forgive  me,  God !  thou  know'st  my  weary  lot, 

And  in  Thy  mercy  be  my  sins  forgot ! 


CRUSHED  HOPES. 


CRUSHED   HOPES. 

Life,  how  thy  hopes  have  fled  ! 

As  morning's  broken  dreams, 
As  rolling  sands  on  ocean's  bed, 
As  dust  upon  the  gossamer  thread, 

As  starlight 's  cloud-quenched  beams  ; 

As  scattered  spray, 
As  myriad  insect's  wings 

Which  glitter  and  are  gone  ; 
As  shadowy  forms  which  fancy  brings, 
Of  long-lost  friends  and  perished  things ; 
So,  youth,  thy  hopes  have  flown 
Away — away ! 

As  moonbeams  gild  the  eaves 
At  evening's  hallowed  hour, 
And,  silver-fingered,  part  the  leaves 
Where,  'mong  the  vines  the  spider  weaves 

3* 


46 


LITTLE  SHELLS. 

Her  web  from  flower  to  flower, 

Nor  linger  here ; 
As,  far  where  vision  breaks 
Upon  the  vast — vast  sea, 
White  sails  are  seen,  as  tiny  specks, 
And  wondering  we  if  ships  or  wrecks 
Are  borne  away  to  lea, 
And  disappear. 

As  fragments  of  a  song, 

We  would  recall  again, 
Whose  bird-like  notes  we  Ve  missed  so  long, 
Are  lost  amidst  the  countless  throng 

Of  memories  on  the  brain — 

Of  cares  and  lore ; 
As  passed  that  zephyr's  breath, 

As  young  life's  laughter  hushed, 
As  gathered  blossoms  in  the  wreath 
On  beauty's  brow  fold  up  in  death ; 

So  have  my  hopes  been  crushed, 
To  rise  no  more. 


PLANTING   A    TJIK.K. 


47 


PLANTING   A   TREE. 

I  am  planting  a  tree — 't  is  love's  labor  ;  I  know 

It  will  never  for  me  to  maturity  grow ; 

It  will  number  its  summers,  and  whiten  with  time, 

When  I  dwell  'mid  the  blooms  of  the  shadowless  clime. 

I  am  planting  a  shade  where  a  sorrowful  one 
Will  repeat,  in  hushed  accents,  "the  planter  is  gone;" 
And  my  own  hearthstone  darlings,  apart  and  afar, 
Will  but  sit  in  its  shadow  in  memory's  parterre. 

O,  never  my  lips,  though  my  spirit  will  sigh 
In  the  cool  of  its  branches  that  climb  to  the  sky ; 
But  if  one  human  brother  shall  rest  in  its  shade, 
And  take  heart  for  life's  battle  anew,  I  'm  repaid. 


4  8  LITTLE  SHELLS. 


PLANTING   A   TREE    "THE    WRONG    END    UP." 

I  was  planting  a  row  of  saplings  one  day, 

And  my  wits  were  flighty — they  are  alway — 

I  spaded,  and  settled  them  here  and  there, 

Like  a  row  of  corn,  all  even  and  fair ; 

But  I  said,  as  my  thoughts  on  one  were  bent, 

I  will  make  of  this  an  experiment ; 

Where  the  buds  were  born  the  roots  shall  grow, 

And  the  buds  shall  stretch  into  roots  below ; 

Then  I  cut  off  the  roots,  so  newly  born, 

And  planted  it  deep  and  straight  as  corn. 

But  I  waited  in  vain  for  the  buds  to  burst 
From  the  tall,  thin  trunk  of  the  tree  reversed ; 
There  it  lingered,  devoid  of  verdure  and  sap, 
Till  I  flung  it  away,  and  filled  the  gap. 


THE    U'KOXG  END    r/>.  49 


Since  the  day  of  that  planting  I  Ve  traveled  some, 

And  have  met  on  life's  turnpike  more  fools  than  one  ; 

But  I  never  have  met  a  woman  or  man 

Bewailing  the  wreck  of  some  foolish  plan, 

But  I  Ve  said  in  my  heart,  "  You  deserved  this  cup, 

For  planting  your  sapling  '  the  wrong  end  up/  " 


LITTLE  SHELLS. 


BREAD  AND  BUTTER. 

Cries  a  child  beside  the  gutter, 
"  Want  a  piece  of  bread  and  butter ; " 

Cries  the  mother,  in  the  door, 
"  Child,  be  still — we  have  no  more." 
Says  the  lady,  passing  by, 
With  a  proud,  disdainful  eye, 
"  Little  brute  in  garments  tattered, 
How  my  satin  he  bespattered ; 
Filthy  woman  !  filthy  boy  ! 
How  the  poor  the  rich  annoy ! " 
Child  still  paddles  in  the  gutter, 
Loudly  crying  "  bread  and  butter !  " 

On  goes  she,  with  queen-like  mien, 
Dazzling  many  with  her  sheen  ; 


Solemn  bells  are  tolling  loud, 
Goes  she  with  the  "  pious  "  crowd  ; 
Kneels  she  in  the  solemn  aisle, 
Heaps  she  high  that  silver  pile, 
Listens  she,  with  upturned  brow, 
To  that  surpliced  preacher  now, 
Sighing,  like  an  angel  grieved, 
For  the  souls  that  ne'er  believed  ; 
Conscience  never  thinks  to  utter — 
Even  Faith  needs  bread  and  butter. 

Says  the  seamstress,  in  despair, 
Toiling,  with  neglected  hair, 
From  the  break  of  morn  till  night, 
Till  her  blue  eyes  lose  their  light, 
And  her  heart  doth  wildly  flutter, 

"  God !  how  dear  is  bread  and  butter ! " 
Says  her  mistress,  tall  and  thin, 

"  God  makes  some  to  toil  and  spin  ; 
Thank  Him  for  the  strength  thou  hast, 
None  who  work  have  need  to  fast ; 


LITTLE  SHELLS! . 

Shame  on  any  one  to  mutter, 

Who  can  earn  her  bread  and  butter." 

Rings  a  voice  throughout  the  halls 
Where  the  sunlight  never  falls — 
Through  that  damp  and  dismal  keep, 
Where  the  wretched  curse  and  weep, 
"  Want  and  sorrow  brought  me  here, 
Wages  low,  and  flour  dear ; 
Starving  children  cried  for  bread, 
Famished  wife  lay  low  in  bed ; 
One  my  hard-earned  wages  kept, 
And  I  slew  him  as  he  slept ! 
God  !  thou  know'st  the  truth  I  utter, 
He  withheld  my  bread  and  butter." 

Says  the  client,  "  I  'm  in  trouble, 
Help  me,  and  I  '11  fee  you  double; 
Stating  then  the  case's  merit, 
What  he  rightly  should  inherit, 


BREAD   AND   BUTTER. 

Lawyer  answers,  "Ah,  of  course, 
Many  a  cause  than  yours  is  worse ; 
Justice  you  must  surely  get — 
Cannot  fail — my  head  I  '11  bet ; 
Leave  the  whole  to  me,  I  say 

'  Where  there  's  will  there  is  a  way.'  " 
Exit  client — hear  him  mutter 

"  Right  or  wrong,  my  bread  I '//  butter  !  " 

Says  a  lady,  weak  and  pallid, 
(Dined  on  lobster,  pig  and  salad,) 

"  Doctor,  I  am  growing  ill — 
Need  a  powder  or  a  pill." 
Doctor  takes  her  wrist  and  sighs, 

"  Very  ///,  to  my  surprise  ! 
Go  to  bed— I  '11  try  to  cure  you, 
Life,  e'en  now,  I  can  't  insure  you ; 
Take  to-night  these  pills  eleven, 
And  to-morrow  powders  seven." 
Home  she  goes  with  saddened  brow; 

"  Ha  !  "  says  he,  "  I  have  her  now  ; 


53 


54  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

Doubts  not  she  a  word  I  utter, 
And  I  lie  for  bread  and  butter." 

Says  the  preacher  to  his  flock, 
"  Hide  you  in  the  '  Living  Rock,' 
Whatsoe'er  your  work  or  name, 
God  doth  love  you  all  the  same." 
And  a  pattern  pastor  he 
Seemeth  in  reality. 

But  when  coarse-wooled  lambkins  stray, 
Never  does  he  ask  "  which  way  ? " 
Goes  not  far  to  bring  them  in, 
Leaves  them  wandering  in  their  sin. 
When  the  "  sheep  "  of  golden  fleeces 
Break  the  fold,  the  "  shepherd  "  chases  ; 
Finds  the  wanderers — brings  them  back, 
(Knows  whose  wool  must  fill  his  sack) — 
Earnest  blessings  then  doth  utter 
O'er  recovered  "bread  and  butter." 

Politicians,  to  and  fro, 
Working  for  "  the  people,"  go, 


BREAD   AND  BUTTER. 

Never  minding  wind  or  weather, 
Here  they  whisper,  there  they  gather, 
Making  friends,  and  making  speeches, 
Sucking  good  men's  blood  like  leeches — 
Puff  themselves,  the  modest  fellows  ! 
Self-inflating,  noisy  bellows ! 
Puff  "the  people,"  till  "the  people" 
Lift  them  high  as  any  steeple ; 
"  Sov'reign  people" — "people  dear" — 
(Generous   people,  it  is  clear,) 
So  "  hurrah  !  "  they  take  their  station, 
Sov'reigns  of  a  "  sov'reign  nation," 
Which  they  '11  prove  to  demonstration : 
On  "  the  people's  "  shoulders  set — 
Ho  !  for  a  ride,  with  a  galling  bit — 
Ride,  and  run,  and  spur,  and  sputter, 
On  "  the  people's  "  bread  and  butter. 


Dreamed  a  dream  too  sad  to  utter, 
Saw  a  wide,  terrific  gutter, 


56  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

Not  of  water,  but  of  fire — 
Smoke  up-curling,  higher — higher — 
There  a  lady  cried  for  "  water," 
Who  had  scorned  the  poor  man's  daughter ; 
There  a  lawyer  sorrowing,  said, 
"  I  consumed  my  client's  bread  ; " 
And  a  doctor  cried,  "  I  filled  her 
With  my  drugs,  and  robbed  and  killed  her — 
Frightened,  blistered,  leeched  and  cut  her, 
All  to  make  my  bread  and  butter." 

There  the  politician  moaned, 
"  While  my  country  bled  and  groaned, 
I,  the  people's  neck  astride, 
Had  a  most  exalted  ride ; 
Eating  up  their  bread  and  butter, 
Who  had  raised  me  from  the  gutter ; 
<  Honorable '  then  they  thought  me, 
Me,  whose  lies  a  title  bought  me  ; 
No  man  says  '  your  servant '  here — 
4  Bought  my  whistle  very  clear.' 


DUE  AD   AND   BUT  TEH. 

'T  is  a  '  democratic '  gutter, 

All  are  minus  bread  and  butter." 


Saw  I  not  that  baby  there, 
With  his  little  brow  of  care, 
Nor  his  mother,  in  the  door, 
Saying,  "  child,  we  have  no  more." 
There,  was  not  that  man  of  woe, 
Who  for  bread  had  slain  his  foe, 
Nor  that  seamstress,  pale  and  sad, 
Who  had  sold  her  fame  for  bread ; 
There,  were  not  those  coarse-wooled  sheep 
Whom  no  shepherd  tried  to  keep — 
Not  a  spirit  walked  that  gutter, 
Who  had  starved  for  bread  and  butter. 

There  the  haughty  head  was  low, 
Naked  was  the  mitred  brow  ; 
Kings  were  there,  without  their  crowns, 
Priests  were  there,  without  their  gowns, 


57 


58  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

Lawyers,  doctors,  minus  fees, 
Nabobs,  minus  beds  of  ease ; 
But  the  sorrowing  ones  of  earth, 
Penury's  children  from  their  birth, 
Dwellers  lone  in  caves  and  sheds, 
Taunted  from  their  cradle-beds, 
God  had  pitied  and  forgiven, 
Purified,  and  called  to  Heaven. 
With  this  dream,  so  sad  to  utter, 
Ends  my  song  of  "  bread  and  butter." 


THE  SIGN    OF    THE   WIDOW  McCUEE.  59 


THE   SIGN   OF   THE  WIDOW   McCREE. 

Pray  who  is  that  man  in  the  broad-cloth  and  satin, 
With  a  neckerchief  stiff  and  a  slick  beaver  hat  on, 
In  cassimeres  fine  as  a  king  ever  sat  on ; 
With  two  little  gray  eyes,  and  a  nose  with  a  turn  up, 
Like  a  pigtail  that 's  roasting,  and  ready  to  burn  up, 
Or  a  little,  grey  kitten,  adrift,  with  its  stern  up ; 
Who  seems  fretted  and  worn,  as  an  over-tasked  waiter, 
Making  speed  at  the  rate  of  a  holiday  skater  ? 

Who  is  he  ?     Do  n't  you  know  ? 
That  is  Squire  Van  Blow, 
Who  is  hurrying  so, 
All  in  black,  like  a  crow, 
From  his  crown  to  his  toe. 
He  has  millions  and  billions, 
The  more  is  the  pity, 


60  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

Twelve  farms  in  the  country, 

Ten  blocks  in  the  city ; 

He  has  horses  and  cattle,  and  sheep  without  number ; 
He  has  coal  beds,  and  forests,  and  mills  to  saw  lumber, 

Velvet  slippers  and  gown, 

In  a  palace  up  town, 

Where  he  snores  upon  down, 
And  choice  wines  bring  sweet  dreams  to  his  slumber 

But  the  Squire,  you  see, 

Has  a  sister,  McCree, 

Who — for  such  things  will  be — 

Far  away  was  at  work,  and  aggrieving ; 
She  wrote  him  sometimes, 
From  his  surplus  of  dimes, 
(This  he  ranked  among  crimes,) 

To  send  her  what  he  well  could  be  giving ; 
And  he  wearied  of  her — 
Her  "  Dear  brother — dear  sir," 
And  thought  none  would  infer 

That  his  sister  Maria  was  living. 


THE  SIGN   OF   THE   WIDOW  McCKEE.  61 

So  he  wrote  her  he  could  n't, 

He  should  n't,  he  would  n't, 

Be  harassed  and  troubled  : 

His  business  had  doubled, 

His  stores  and  his  stills, 

His  mines  and  his  mills, 
All  needed  his  care  and  attention ; 

Her  epistles  were  many, 

Not  one  worth  a  penny, 

She  must  not  send  any, 
He  desired  an  immediate  suspension. 


Then  the  widow,  she  said, 
With  a  toss  of  her  head, 
He  shall  wish  me  quite  dead ; 
I  '11  go  back  to  the  place  I  was  born  in. 
(Who  says  I  shall  not?) 
There  rent  me  a  cot, 
With  such  means  as  I  've  got, 

Little  better  than  cribs  they  put  corn  in. 
4 


62  LITTLE  H1IELL8. 

And  Maria  McCree, 
After  settling,  you  see, 
Hung  a  sign  on  a  tree, 

Which  her  brother  descried  on  the  morrow, 
"  Yellow  letters  in  blue," 
Said  she,  laughing,  "will  do," 
As  her  name  rose  in  view, 
"  This  will  give  him  vexation  and  sorrow ; 
I,  Maria  Van  Blow, 
All  the  village  will  know, 
Am  now  fallen  so  low 

That  appearance  no  longer  I  borrow ; 
For  promptly  attending 
To  washing  and  mending, 
And  taking,  and  sending 

Clothes  home,  on  that  shingle,  I  've  painted, 
And  nailed  to  that  tree, 
(Even  so  let  it  be), 
BY  MARIA  McCREE, 

With  her  neighbors  aforetime  acquainted." 


THE  SIGN  OF    THE    WIDOW  MdJllEE. 

'T  is  reported  he  proffered, 
From  gold  he  had  coffered, 
Five  hundred ;  and  offered 

To  send  her  this  way,  or  another ; 

But  she  scorned  to  be  hired — 
Said  her  comfort  required 
Nothing  more ;  she  desired 

But  to  stay  within  sight  of  her  brother. 

Now,  we  hear  he  is  making 
(With  agony  shaking) 
An  effort,  and  taking 

All  pains  to  be  off  to  the  city ; 
But  the  widow  declares, 
Where  he  goes,  with  his  heirs, 
She  will  haunt  his  gray  hairs, 

And  we  doubt  not  she  will,  for  she 's  gritty. 

All  too  late,  he  is  wise, 
And  wherever  he  hies, 
To  his  shame  and  surprise, 


64  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

He  will  meet  the  gaunt  form  of  his  sister ; 
City,  village,  or  town, 
As  he  goes  up  and  down, 

She  will  cling  to  his  side  like  a  blister. 

There,  printer,  you  Ve  heard 
How  he  paused  and  deferred, 
By  no  sympathy  stirred, 

To  be  up  and  a-doing  in  season ; 

Till,  the  golden  hours  flown, 
He  transformed  into  stone 
Her  sad  heart ;   and  his  own 

Is  "  in  torment "  too  soon  for  that  reason. 


THE   WASHING  HILL. 


THE   WASHING   BILL. 

Where  windows  draped  in  gold  and  blue 

Were  silvered  by  the  moon, 
And  massive  pillars,  wreathed  with  dew, 

In  shadowy  splendor  shone  ; 


Where  downy  cushions  offered  rest 

To  care's  o'erlabored  head, 
And  feet  on  carpet  flowers  were  pressed 

Soft  as  a  mossy  bed  ; 


Where  pictures  rare,  and  mirrors  vast, 
Were  hung  in  golden  frames, 

And  glittering  things,  by  wealth  amassed, 
Flashed  like  a  hundred  flames ; 


66  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

Two  ladies  sat,  discoursing  low — 
High-born  and  proud  they  seemed, 

As,  melting  on  their  forehead's  snow, 
The  radiance  o'er  them  streamed. 


A  fleecy  cap  the  matron  wore  ; 

The  maiden's  auburn  hair, 
In  shimmering  ringlets,  drifted  o'er 

Her  -neck  and  shoulders  fair. 


The  maiden's  eye  was  cold,  and  set 
Intensely  on  her  thought ; 

Those  lips,  whose  balmy  alphabet 
Was  grief's,  her  curve  had  caught. 

"  Say  not  forgive ;  sweet  mother,  hush  ! 

Now  comes  the  avenging  hour  ; 
That  craven  heart  I  've  won  to  crush 
Shall  feel  my  utmost  power." 


THE   WASHING  BILL.  67 

Lo  !  enters  in  a  smiling  man 

Of  fashion  and  parade, 
A  bland,  obsequious  gentleman, 

And  bows  before  the  maid. 


"  Dear  Isabel !  for  e'er  the  same, 

My  worship  I  repeat ; 
Our  bridal  day  I  pray  thee  name- 
My  life  is  at  thy  feet." 


The  maid  replies :  u  Sit  down  by  me, 

I  '11  answer  by-and-by ; 
A  story  let  me  tell  to  thee 

Before  I  make  reply  : 

"  Of  common  life,  of  common  things, 

And  hearts  that  sorrow  knew, 
A  tale  where  fancy  folds  her  wings, 
And  listens  to  the  true." 


LITTLE  KHELL8. 

"  Speak  on,  sweet  sov'reign  of  my  will, 

I  cannot  tell  thee  nay ; 
Whate'er  thou  say'st,  my  pleasure  still 
Is  always  to  obey." 

THE    TALE. 

"  A  woman,  when  the  wind  was  raw, 

Wore  faded  calico ; 
Her  bonnet  was  the  coarsest  straw, 
With  neither  band  nor  bow. 

"  Her  shoes  were  neither  bound  nor  lined, 

Her  hose  of  rope-like  yarn, 
Their  first  foundation  hid  behind 
Full  many  a  crafty  darn. 

"  No  cloak  nor  shawl  enwrapped  her  form, 

That  cold  December  day, 
When,  hurrying  through  a  rising  storm, 
She  entered  on  Broadway. 


OF  TK£ 

UNIVERS8TY 

OF 

THE   WASHING 


"  She  stopped  before  a  large  hotel, 

Beside  a  group  of  men, 
And  said,  to  one  who  knew  her  well, 
'  Please  pay  me  two  pounds  ten.' 

"  I  'm  very  poor ;  so  small  a  sum 
Must  seem  a  mite  with  thee ; 
I  have  three  tender  babes  at  home, 
Who  wait  and  weep  for  me. 


"  Think  !  I  have  toiled  for  many  .a  day 

To  make  thy  linen  clean  ; 
Then,  come  to  ask  for  honest  pay, 
Have  been  denied  at  e'en. 


"  Think  how  I  've  come  thro'  snow  and  thaw, 

And  brought  those  robes  again  ; 
While  frightened  faces  shrieked  '  Mamma ! ' 
At  every  broken  pane. 


LITTLE  SHELLti. 

Begone  !  he  said,  I  owe  thee  naught, 
Thou  bold,  untruthful  jade, 

That  well  deserv'st  a  beggar's  lot ; 
I  have  no  debts  unpaid ! 


"  What  could  she  do  ?     Derision's  laugh 

From  lip  to  lip  went  round  ; 
Why  should  she  vent  her  feeble  wrath 
Where  not  a  man  was  found. 


"  They  do  not  fear  the  Holy  One, 

Who  kept  her  humble  fold ; 
Whose  hand  might  break  their  hearts  of  stone, 
Ere  half  their  years  were  told. 

"  That  night,  all  night,  resolved  she  stood, 
And  washed,  and  rinsed,  and  wrung ; 
Her  only  hope  of  flour  and  wood 
On  that  night's  labor  hung. 


THE   WASHING  BILL.  7I 


"  The  angel  saw  her  desperate  strife, 

Who  stood  to  guard  her  door, 

And  prayed  the  Author  of  her  life, 

She  thence  might  toil  no  more. 


"  A  brother  dear,  in  manhood's  morn, 

To  distant  isles  had  sailed ; 
Life's  burden  and  its  heat  he  'd  borne, 
Nor  once  his  kindred  hailed. 


"  With  wealth  untold  that  pilgrim  came, 

A  man  of  silvered  hair, 
His  earthly  goods,  his  honored  name, 
With  friends  beloved  to  share. 


"  For  parents  dear  his  bosom  yearns : 

They  Ve  passed  within  the  door 
Which  opes  for  all,  but  whence  returns 
Not  one,  forever  more. 


72  LITTLE   SHELL*. 

"  His  sister's  name  he  seeks,  with  dread, 

On  each  memorial  stone  ; 
She  sleeps  not  'mong  his  household  dead- 
Where  has  the  loved  one  gone  ? 


"  She  should  be  known  in  many  a  hall 
Which  once  she  graced  with  him  ; 
They  knew  her  once,  so  far  and  tall, 
Now  long  unknown  to  them. 


"  They  kept  her  image  while  it  smiled, 

Within  a  jeweled  case  ; 
They  lost  it  when,  misfortune's  child, 
She  wore  a  graver  face. 

"  He  seeks  her  here,  he  seeks  her  there  ; 

None  know  the  changed  Jeannette, 
Till  chance  reveals  the  aged  pair 
Who  note  the  sufferer  yet. 


THE   WAXUIXtt   BILL. 

"  My  tale  is  told.     O,  shrunken  soul ! 

Why  are  thy  lips  so  white  ? 
Thy  laundress,  like  a  beckoning  ghoul, 
Shall  scare  thy  dreams  to-night ! 

"  Thy  laundress,  in  that  velvet  grey, 

All  edged  with  golden  sheen, 
Who  turns  her  tearful  face  away, 
Tho'  here  at  home  a  queen. 


"  And  I  am  one  of  three  that  wept 

When  '  mother '  staid  so  long, 
And,  shivering  on  the  hearth-stone,  kept 
The  record  of  her  wrong. 


"  For  this  one  hour.the  net  was  spread 

Which  holds  thy  feet  so  fast  ; 
I  break  its  meshes,  thread  by  thread  ; 
Go  !    I  'm  avenged  at  last. 


73 


LITTLE  SHELLS. 

•  Unhappy  man  !  the  bond  was  loosed, 

He  lost,  but  loved  her  still, 
Who,  fifteen  years  before,  refused 
Her  mother's  Washing  Bill" 


OUT   OF  FASHION.  75 


BETTER   OUT   OF   THE  WORLD   THAN   THE 
FASHION. 

Queen  Fashion,  you  know,  is  a  wonderful  shrew, 
If  she  says  "  wear  pink,"  lay  aside  your  blue ; 
Or  she  '11  tell  all  the  world  to  laugh  at  you — 

Oh  !  how  ridicule  puts  the  lash  on  ; 
Get  out  of  the  world,  if  you  're  poor  and  proud, 
While  your  credit  is  good  for  a  coffin  and  shroud ; 
For  we  '11  tell  you  a  secret — d«  n't  breathe  it  aloud  - 

"  Better  out  of  the  world  than  the  fashion." 

Speak  humbly  and  low  in  the  rich  man's  ear ; 
Though  your  heart  be  breaking,  suppress  that  tear  ; 
For  he  "  hates  long  stories,"  he  says  with  a  sneer, 

And  your  "  labor  "  you  won't  get  the  "  cash  on." 
Hush !  say  he  is  generous,  and  kind,  and  good, 
Though  he 's  greedily  sucking  your  very  blood, 


7 6  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

And  would  tear  the  last  rag  from  your  back,  if  he  could, 
For,  to  flatter  the  rich  is  the  fashion. 


Speak  softly,  O  bard  !  when  you  sing  your  song ; 
Most  gently,  O  preacher  !  nor  preach  too  long ; 
Never  mention  omissions,  nor  things  done  wrong, 

Or  your  people  will  fly  in  a  passion  ; 
Plain  talk  was  a  folly  of  olden  times, 
But  should  never  appear  in  our  modern  rhymes ; 
And  that  preacher  may  whistle  for  hearers  and  dimes 

Whose  sermons  are  out  of  fashion. 
* 

Just  pleasantly  tell  them  how  pious  they  are, 

With  a  bow  and  a  smile,  and  they  '11  all  be  there — 

1  What  an  excellent  sermon ' — '  a  beautiful  prayer ' — 

And  they  '11  give  you  enough  to  dash  on. 
Do  likewise,  O  poet !  the  time  has  gone  by 
When  your  pathos  was  answered  by  tears  in  the  eye, 
And  the  truth,  as  a  poem,  is  bitter  and  dry, 

And  wofully  out  of  fashion. 


TWIN  SPIPJTS. 


77 


TWIN   SPIRITS. 

We  tell  you  never  was  a  soul  created, 

But  that  another  was  created  for  it ; 
Though  here  and  there  antipodes  are  mated, 

There  are  "  twin  spirits"  and  we  underscore  it  ; 
It  sometimes  happens  blundering  chance  has  led  them 
So  far  asunder  earth  can  never  wed  them, 

And  so  for  Heaven  they  wait. 

We  tell  you,  too,  if  two  have  been  united, 
Of  different  tastes  and  adverse  education, 

By  any  freak  of  fortune,  or  short-sighted 
Advice  of  friends,  without  consideration, 

They  find  their  "  union  "  but  a  bursting  bubble, 

Never  in  anything  but  folly  double, 
Till  they  agree  to  hate. 


7 8  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

Look  to  it !  ye  who  yet  unfettered  wander, 
Lest  mirage  waters  lure  ye  to  your  doom ; 

Ye  will  love  once — it  must  be ;  therefore  ponder 
Till  life's  spring  passes,  and  its  summer  bloom ; 

Yea,  wait  till  Autumn's  hoary  frosts  shall  find  you, 

For  your  "twin  spirit ; "  let  no  other  bind  you, 
Lest  you  be  wise  too  late. 


SPIES!    SPIES!!    SPIES!!! 


79 


SPIES!    SPIES!!    SPIES!!! 

Spies  upon  our  hearths  intruding, 
Angels  shield  us  from  your  wiles  ! 

Heaven  help  us  bear  in  patience 
All  the  sunshine  of  your  smiles  ! 


Spies  that  come  with  curls  and  kisses, 
Sighing  o'er  our  griefs  and  cares  ; 

Never  mind  our  trouble,  darlings, 
Leave  us  out  of  all  your  "  prayers." 

Spies  that  stand  at  every  corner, 
Spying  "for  your  country's  weal," 

Spying  "  for  religion's  honor," 
Stabbing  whom  ye  feign  to  heal. 


8o  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

Spies  that  eat  the  good  man's  dinner, 
Taking  notes  of  every  word  ; 

On  his  viands,  half  digested, 
To  repeat  the  story  heard. 


Spies  that,  in  the  wool  of  "  patrons," 
Seek,  like  wolves,  the  trustful  young ; 

Hungry  for  the  bosom  secrets 

Dropping  from  the  thoughtless  tongue. 

Spies  of  every  grade  and  station, 
Wise  and  simple,  great  and  small, 

Village,  city,  army,  nation, 

Now  are  struggling  in  your  thrall. 

To  your  holes,  ye  parlor  vipers  ! 

To  your  nests,  ye  pious  owls  ! 
Get  ye  home,  infernal  pickets  ! 

Satan  calls  his  "  muster  rolls." 


THE   WOULD.  8 1 


THE   WORLD. 

The  world  is  an  ass,  which  is  goaded  along 

By  many  a  bawling  fellow ; 
And  she  seldom  kicks  when  a  fool  jumps  on, 

Though  he  spurs  till  her  flanks  are  mellow. 


The  world  is  a  child,  allured  by  toys, 
And  charmed  with  bells  and  rattles ; 

And  the  hero  who  makes  the  greatest  noise, 
Is  the  hero  of  all  her  battles. 


The  world 's  a  coquette,  who  spreads  her  snares 

For  the  idle  and  the  simple ; 
And  dallies  alike  with  the  man  of  cares, 

Or  the  boy  with  the  baby-dimple. 


82  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

The  world  is  a  weaver,  laughing  aloud 
In  the  midst  of  the  sick  and  dying, 

And  cheerily  singing  while  weaving  a  shroud, 
Or  at  wedding  robes  carelessly  plying. 

The  world 's  a  physician,  the  pulse  that  feels 
Of  the  patient  that  pays  her  kindly  ; 

But  the  brain  of  the  poor  man  throbs  and  reels, 
And  "the  doctor "  goes  past  him  blindly. 


f  The  world  is  a  lawyer,  pleading  the  cause 

Of  the  rich  with  due  precision ; 
But  the  claims  of  the  poor  are  dark  with  flaws, 
And  she  passes  them  by  with  derision. 


The  world  is  a  preacher,  reproving  sin 
Where  the  prospect  is  poor  for  a  dinner ; 

But  graciously  smiling,  and  crying  "clean," 
Where  there 's  hope  of  a  feast  with  the  sinner 


THE   WORLD.  83 

The  world  is  a  critic,  deaf,  dumb  and  blind 

To  the  claims  of  unlucky  merit ; 
But,  fee  her  beforehand,  she  '11  give  you  "a  mind," 

Though  your  head  be  as  blank  as  a  garret. 

The  world  is  Queen  Fashion  ;  her  fettered  slaves 

She  rules  with  a  rod  unfeeling ; 
And  they  find  no  rest  till  in  quiet  graves 

They  forget  her  unkindly  dealing. 

The  world — she  is  everything  under  the  sun  ! 

It  surpasses  our  art  to  describe  her; 
She  will  rank  us  all  "  idiots,"  let  her  alone, 

She  will  call  us  all  "  wise  "  if  we  bribe  her. 


84  LITTLE  8HELL8. 


NOBODY. 

If  nobody  's  noticed  you,  you  must  be  small ; 
If  nobody 's  slighted  you,  you  must  be  tall ; 
If  nobody 's  bowed  to  you,  you  must  be  low  ; 
If  nobody  's  kissed  you,  you  're  ugly,  we  know  ; 
If  nobody 's  envied  you,  you  're  a  poor  elf ; 
If  nobody 's  flattered  you,  flatter  yourself; 
If  nobody 's  cheated  you,  you  are  a  knave  ; 
If  nobody 's  hated  you,  you  are  a  slave ; 
If  nobody 's  called  you  a  "  fool "  to  your  face, 
Somebody 's  wished  for  your  back  in  its  place ; 
If  nobody 's  called  you  a  "  tyrant "  or  "  scold," 
Somebody  thinks  you  of  spiritless  mould ; 
If  nobody  knows  of  your  faults  but  "a  friend, 
Nobody  '11  miss  of  them  at  the  world's  end ; 
If  nobody  clings  to  your  purse  like  a  fawn, 
Nobody  '11  run  like  a  hound  when  it 's  gone  ; 


NOBODY. 

If  nobody  's  eaten  his  bread  from  your  store, 
Nobody  '11  call  you  "a  miserly  bore  ;" 
If  nobody  's  slandered  you — here  is  our  pen- 
Sign  yourself  NOBODY,  quick  as  you  can. 


86  LITTLE  tiUELLS. 


"UPS   AND    DOWNS." 

Men  talk  of  their  "  ups  "  and  their  "  downs," 
And  a  wonderful  racket  they  make  ; 

And  women  in  boroughs  and  towns 
To  talk  of  them  oft  lie  awake. 


I  have  only  to  mention  of  mine, 

That  some  have  had  fewer,  some  more  j 

And  the  medium  's  the  thing,  I  opine, 
So  I  '11  keep  discontent  out  of  door. 


I  have  had  but  a  precious  few  "  ups," 

While  my  "downs  "  count  a  million  or  so ; 

But  one  who  on  charity  sups 

Might  envy  my  station  e'en  now. 


UPS  AND  DOJOT/S'.  87 

These  words  can  be  strangers  to  none, 

Yet  few  on  their  import  agree  ; 
For  what  is  the  "  up  "  of  the  one, 

The  "down"  of  another  might  be. 


88  LITTLE  S11ELL8. 


THE   THIRST   FOR   FAME. 

A  hoary  mortal  whom  the  world  called  "  great," 
Unsated  still  with  praise,  defying  God, 
Stole  from  the  crowd  to  battle  with  himself, 
And  voiced  his  heart-throes  thus  in  bitter  words  : 


Fame,  how  I  wooed  thee !     With  my  strong,  wild  will 

I  trampled  down  the  flowers.     I  spurned  the  grass  ; 

I  would  not  note  the  innocent  child  at  play, 

Nor  hear  life's  mentor,  bowed  with  hoary  age ; 

I  talked  not  with  the  stars — the  pensive  stars — 

That  hung  above  me,  high  and  pure  alway  ! 

I  hailed  no  God's  hand  in  the  concave  blue, 

Nor  knelt  before  him  in  the  midnight's  hush. 

But  when  the  cloud  rolled  up  its  inky  folds, 

And  the  forked  lightning  cut  its  way  amain ; 


TIIE   THilifiT   VOK    FAME. 


89 


When  the  hoarse  tempest  rocked  the  startled  earth 

Till  the  roused  ocean  battled  with  the  shore, 

And  shrieking  sea-birds  flecked  the  plain  with  white  j 

Then  my  lips  smiled,  as  answered  bolt  to  bolt, 

And  fiercer  lightnings  lit  the  shuddering  dark  ; 

For  all  my  being  was  for  fame  athirst. 

One  hot,  mad  fever  fired  my  heart  and  brain ; 

And  hours  were  years,  and  years  as  lustrums  were 

Till  the  world  knew  me  ;  but  I  thirsted  still. 


Alas  !  ambition,  in  thy  direful  wake 

Lie  throngs  of  broken  hearts — cold,  ghastly  piles 

Of  hearts,  that  perished  in  the  covered  fires 

Thy  torch  had  kindled  and  thy  breath  had  fanned  ! 

Must  I  walk  softly  to  those  myriad  heaps 

While  yet  my  name. is  but  a  whispered  word? 

God  of  this  weary  soul  !  if  madest  thou  me 

To  crawl  life's  highway  like  a  slimy  worm, 

Why  didst  thou  make  my  heart  a  living  coal, 

To  rock  and  kindle  in  the  strong,  wild  wind  ? 


9o  LITTLE  fi  HELL  fit. 


Is  here  no  rest,  but  for  those  plodding  feet 
That  never  spurn  the  dust  ?     Then  welcome,  toil ! 
And  let  me  nurse  these  bosom-embers  still, 
And  with  my  last  breath  fan  their  crimson  back. 


HOW   TO  PLEASE  EVERYBODY.  91 


HOW  TO    PLEASE   EVERYBODY. 

Rise  in  the  morning  as  early  as  five, 

And  work  for  the  drones  that  lie  snug  in  the  hive ; 

Breakfast  on  water,  for  coffee  is  dear, 

Save  for  the  visitors  all  your  good  cheer  ; 

Shut  the  door  softly,  and  rush  to  your  work, 

But  if  any  man  hail  you,  hold  up,  with  a  jerk ; 

His  questions  all  answered,  then  hurry  along, 

Giving  all  of  the  path  to  each  child  of  the  throng  ; 

Stop,  though  you  've  not  leisure,  to  chat  with  the  fool, 

And  talk  with  the  minions  of  cant  and  misrule ; 

Bow  to  the  great  man,  and  shrink  from  the  rich, 

Till  your  feet  in  their  humbleness  plunge  in  the  ditch. 

Arrive  at  your  work  shop  precisely  at  'leven, 

Though  you  meant  to  have  reached  it  an  hour  before  seven  ; 

Toil  like  a  dog  till  the  clock  has  struck  one, 

Then  turn  your  face  homeward,  your  task  scarce  begun  ; 


92 


LITTLE  SHELLS. 


And,  if  all  your  friends  happen  at  dinner  to  be, 

You  may  get  to  your  lodgings  sometime  before  three. 

Send  your  boy  to  the  priest  with  your  mutton  and  wine, 

And  on  brown  bread  and  water  contentedly  dine  ; 

Tell  your  wife,  if  she  asks  for  a  dollar,  to  "  wait," 

And  give  two  to  the  beggar  that  stands  at  your  gate  ; 

Give  your  last  to  the  lady  who  asks  you  for  some 

"  For  the  perishing  heathen,"  though  robbing  your  home  ; 

If  your  pocket  cry  "  emptiness,"  stifle  its  breath, 

For  the  world  must  be  pleased,  though  want  choke  you  to 

death. 

Then  go  back  to  your  work,  not  forgetting  to  be 
"  Your  obliged,"  and  "  your  servant,"  to  all  whom  you  see. 
Ply  your  tools  like  a  Hercules  now  for  your  bread, 
Nor  go  home  till  you  're  certain  the  world  is  in  bed  ; 
Take  a  crust  for  your  supper,  lie  down  upon  hay, 
And  dream  over  the  friendships  made  fast  through  the  day. 
And  as  this  day  has  passed,  let  your  days  all  pass  on, 
Till  you  've  pleased  all  the  world,  and  your  duty  is  clone. 
Then  lie  down  and  rejoice  at  the  end  of  your  race, 
You  may  own  as  much  land  as  will  cover  your  face. 


HOW  TO  PLEASE  EVERYBODY.  93 

Then  the  "  saints  "  of  the  world,  when  they  hear  of  your 

death, 

Will  exclaim,  "  Oh,  poor  fellow  ! "  and  draw  a  long  breath, 
And  pass  on  unconcerned.    *Ho  !  you  slumbering  elf, 
If  you  'd  "  please  everybody  "  now — bury  yourself. 


5* 


94 


JJTTLK   SHELLS. 


GENTLEMAN   BEFORE   MARRIAGE. 

My  dearest  duck ;  my  sweetest  girl, 

I  love  you  most  sincerely ; 
I  'd  rather  own  this  sunny  curl 

Than  win  a  fortune  yearly ; 
This  little  hand,  so  soft  and  white, 

Was  only  made  for  kisses  ; 
This  little  form,  so  frail  and  light, 

Was  made  for  gauzy  dresses  ! 


I  '11  keep  my  Kate  a  span  of  greys, 

A  carriage  and  a  pony ; 
I  '11  go  with  her  to  balls  and  plays, 

And  never  speak  of  money  ; 
For  her  I  '11  buy  romances  new — 

Attending  to  her  pleasure — 


IIKFOHE  AND   AFTKJ2  MMUITAdK. 

And  poems,  bound  in  gold  and  blue, 

I  '11  order  for  my  treasure. 
Our  lives  shall  be  but  one  sweet  dream 

Of  love  and  sunny  weather, 
No  adverse  wave  shall  cross  the  stream 

Of  wedded  bliss  forever  ! 


AFTER  MARRIAGE. 

You  always  talk  of  plays  and  balls  ; 

You  are  forever  flirting, 
And  scribbling  rhymes,  and  making  calls, 

And  never  making  shirting  ; 
You  smile  in  every  whiskered  face ; 

You  chase  all  silly  fashions  \ 
You  load  with  jewels,  flaunt  in  lace, 

And  show  your  angry  passions  ! 


The  baby 's  left  to  cry  and  moan, 
I  've  ne'er  a  decent  dinner  ; 


95 


96  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

You  drag  me  out,  you  call  me  down — 

I  am  a  hen-pecked  sinner, 
An  abject  slave — I  tell  you  so  ! 

Madame  !  your  folly 's  ended  ; 
You  shall  not  flirt — and  go — and  go — 

I  'm  weary  and  offended  ; 
I  'm  going  to  a  reading  room — 

I  '11  join  a  club  thereafter — 
So — mend  your  manners — stay  at  home, 

And  dry  your  eyes  with  laughter ! 

LADY    BEFORE    MARRIAGE. 

I  feel  a  very  solemn  sense 

Of  all  a  woman's  duty 
To  keep  within  the  door-yard  fence, 

Unmindful  of  her  beauty  ; 
To  share  her  husband's  griefs  and  cares, 

And,  in  his  shadow  walking, 
Content  to  mind  her  own  affairs, 

Be  reverent  when  he 's  talking ! 


BEFORE  AND  AFTER  MARRIAGE. 

'T  is  plain,  our  Maker  did  design 

That  woman  should  be  humble ; 
Not  given  to  looks,  nor  dressing  fine, 

Which  makes  them  fret  and  grumble. 
Those  novels  are  pernicious  things 

To  feed  imagination  ; 
All  filled  with  angels  shorn  of  wings — 

To  me  they  are  vexation. 
Dear  William,  as  your  wedded  wife, 

I  never  mean  to  teaze  you ; 
My  aim  and  pride  through  all  my  life 

Shall  only  be  to  please  you ! 

AFTER  MARRIAGE. 

Bill !  come  down  stairs  \  I  know  you  can  ! 

The  baby  has  the  colic  ; 
The  way  you  shirk  your  duties,  man, 

Is  truly  diabolic ! 
The  nurse  has  such  a  blundering  way 

She  cannot  stop  its  crying, 


97 


98  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

And  as  for  me,  I'm  housed  all  day 
Till  I  am  almost  dying ! 

Ann  !  run  and  bring  my  velvet  sacque, 

My  parasol  and  bonnet ; 
I  'm  going  to  the  Messrs.  Black, 

The  printers,  with  a  sonnet ! 
I  have  no  time  to  write  nor  read 
But  while  he  tends  the  baby ; 

You.  Sarah,  take  this  book  with  speed 
Across  to  Mrs.  Maybe ; 

Ask  her  to  loan  me  Hugo's  last 
In  change  for  Love's  Dilemma ; 

There  Bill — don 't  rock  so  horrid  fast — 
You  ?11  wake  my  darling  Emma  ! 


<)!    IT   iS    It  Mil). 


99 


"O!     IT   IS    HARD,   LINK   AFTP:R   LINK." 

O  !  it  is  hard,  link  after  link 

To  lose  from  love's  bright  chain, 

And  trembling  on  the  grave's  cold  brink 
Where  life's  sweet  clay  is  lain, 

Repeat  the  words,  "  Thy  will  be  done  !  " 

The  heart  with  such  a  dismal  moan, 
Says,  "  Can  they  rise  again  ? " 


Forgive,  O  God  !  the  yearning  beat 
Of  these  poor  hearts  of  clay, 

That  leave  with  slow,  reluctant  feet, 
The  earth-clods  where  they  lay ; 

The  faith  that  still,  with  leaden  wings, 

Looks  upward  to  eternal  things, 
And  cannot  soar  away. 


LITTLE  SHELLS. 

Could  but  a  voice — a  single  tone — • 
Come  from  that  far-off  strand 

Where  death  hath  gathered,  one  by  one, 
The  cherished  household  band  ; 

Could  but  one  tress  we  Ve  known  before 

Float  back  from  that  mysterious  shore, 
That  cloud-wrapped  better  land ; 

We  could  believe — we  would  be  still, 
And  say,  "  What  is,  is  right "  ; 

Yea,  with  a  stern  triumphant  will, 
Bid  all  our  fears  good  night. 

Grant  us  a  "sign,"  Ojisen  Lord, 

The  faintest  touch,  the  lightest  word, 
One  little  beam  of  light. 


jri/7;.V   WILL    THE    WWXTXG   P,E. 


WHEN   WILL   THE   MORNING  BE  ? 

Father  !  the  night  is  long  and  drear  ; 

Where  doth  the  morning  stay  ? 
When  will  the  first  grey  tint  appear 

Which  ushers  in  the  day  ? 

When  will  the  first  bright  silver  thread 

Be  woven  with  the  black, 
And  gladness  through  the  heart  be  shed, 

So  long  on  sorrow's  rack  ? 

I  bear,  I  strive,  nor  yield  to  tears  ; 

I  hope,  believe  and  trust ; 
But  oh  !  these  long,  these  weary  years  ! 

Lord,  what  am  I  but' dust? 


LITTLE  SHELLS. 

I  'm  sick  with  hope  deferr'd — I  die  ; 
Remove  this  cup  from  me  ! 

Hushed  midnight  wearies  of  my  cry- 
When  will  the  morning  be  ? 


POOX."  103 


NAY,   NEVER   SAY,   "POOR!" 

Nay,  never  say,  "  poor  !  " 
Lest  your  friends  bring  you  garments  so  threadbare  and 

greasy 

You  will  turn  from  the  sight  of  them  sick  and  uneasy, 
While  you  dolefully  thank  them,  and  think,  as  you  bear  it, 
That  to-morrow  you  '11  hang  the  same  high  in  the  garret ; 

To  cobwebs  you  '11  doom  them ; 

The  moth  shall  consume  them 

Till  light  shall  illume  them ; 
The  mouse  and  her  young  in  the  pockets  shall  hide  ; 

Long  life  to  the  donor 

Who  makes  you  the  owner 
Of  hapless  old  trowsers,  too  short  and  too  wide. 

Nay,  never  say,  "  poor  !  " 
And  then  put  up  your  lip  to  be  kissed  so  sincerely  ; 


104  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

They  will  just  make  a  bow,  or  shake  hands  with  you  merely, 

Who  a  short  time  ago  were  "  so  happy  to  meet  you," 

That  you  feared,  in  their  earnest  devotion,  they  'd  eat  you  ; 

Now  their  "  How  do  you  do  ? " 

Will  be  solemn  and  low 

As  the  plaint  of  a  crow, 
When  the  corn  is  all  gone  and  the  winter  is  near ; 

They  will  murmur  of  "  losses," 

"  Disappointments  "  and  "crosses," 
With  their  eyes  on  the  door ;  and,  in  haste,  disappear. 

Nay,  never  say,  "  poor  !  " 

All  the  world,  like  your  friends,  will  at  once  under-rate  you; 

Your  relations,  offended,  will  shun  you  and  hate  you ; 

All  the  fools  whom  you  meet  will  make  bold  to  advise  you 

To  go  this  way,  or  that ;  since  they  Ve  learned  to  despise 

you ; 

They  will  tauntingly  say, 
With  their  drawling  "  Good-day  !  " 

"  He  who  gave  takes  away, 
• 

And  the  blessings  He  grants  us  are  oft-times  a  snare ;" 


-Y.ir,   XE\rEli  SAY,   "-POOS."  105 

Then  leave  you  to  gather 
Your  hay  in  cold  weather, 
When  the  fall  rains  have  come  and  the  meadows  are  bare. 

Nay,  never  say,  "  poor  !  " 

All  the  faults  of  your  youth  will  be  whispered  and  told ; 
All  the  secrets,  once  hidden  by  glitter  and  gold  j 
All  the  nothings  you  've  said  in  your  hurry  or  spleen, 
Will  be  held  up  to  view  without  mercy  or  screen. 

Nay,  never  say,  "poor !  " 

Keep  a  coach  as  before  ; 

Borrow  money  the  more  ; 
And,  when  no  man  will  trust  you,  take  poison  and  die  j 

Then  your  kindred  will  kiss  you, 

As  they  tell  "  how  they  '11  miss  you ; " 
You  will  have  a  fine  funeral,  and — creditors  cry. 


I06  LITTLE  SHELLS. 


"ROOT    ON!" 

Ye  men,  with  faces  long  and  sad  ! 
Ye  women,  who  forever  gad 
To  ferret  out  the  faults,  so  bad, 

Of  all  the  people  near  you ! 
Ye  owls  in  pants  ! — ye  skirted  geese  ! 
Who  never  give  our  ears  release, 
Nor  grant  our  souls  a  moment's  peace, 

We  will  not  stoop  to  hear  you. 
Oh  !  fools  !  with  everlasting  tongues — 
With  iron  heels  and  leathery  lungs ; 
Ye  barrels,  full,  with  leaky  bungs, 

We  neither  love  nor  fear  you  ! 
There  's  not  a  name  on  earth  so  fair 
Ye  would  not  set  your  blotting  there, 
And  finger  it  \\i\hpious  care 

Till  naught  remains  but  sorrow  ; 


HOOT   ON.  107 

There  's  not  a  heart  whose  generous  beat 

Ye  do  not  try  to  prove  a  cheat ; 

• 
Its  virtues  hide — its  faults  repeat, 

Where'er  ye  bid  "  Good-morrow  !  " 
The  swine,  which  delves  for  meaner  things, 
The  jewel  to  the  sunlight  flings  ! 
Root  on ;  till  safe  where  angels'  wings 

Ye  cannot  beg  nor  borrow  ! 


io8  LITTLE  X11ELLX. 


NATURE. 

Like  a  freed  prisoner,  boldly  walk  I  forth 

Communing  with  my  thoughts.     The  earth  is  mine, 

* 
With  all  its  verdure  and  its  glittering  dews, 

Its  waters  and  its  hills.     The  low,  meek  flowers, 
Up-springing  at  my  feet,  for  me  exhale 
Their  wealth  of  incense ;  and  I  love  them  all. 
I  thank  thee,  Nature  !  for  thy  mountains  lift 
Their  leafy  branches  proudly  o'er  my  head 
To  screen  me  from  the  sun ;  thy  rivers  flow 
On,  in  their  murmuring  melody,  for  aye ; 
And  the  winged  warblers  of  the  balmy  air 
Chant  their  sweet  lays  for  me.     The  evening  flings 
Her  dusky  mantle  o'er  the  arching  skies, 
As  weary  day  retires  ;  and  the  fair  stars, 
As  fire-drops  glittering  on  the  eternal  blue, 
Uplift  my  heart  to  Heaven.     O  Nature  !  thou 


NATURE. 


109 


Good  gift  of  God  !  how  rich  is  man  in  thee  ! 
Thou  hast  no  coffers,  but  the  poorest  serf 
That  treads  unlettered  on  thy  common  walks 
In  thee  hath  heritage.     No  robber  power 
Can  wrest  from  man — the  heir — his  boundless  wealth. 
Thou  knowest  no  titles,  Nature  !     Every  child 
Of  the  great  Father  reigns  on  earth  a  prince, 
Whose  foot-stool  is  the  velvet-coated  sward — 
Whose  throne  the  hills — whose  crown  the  arch  of  Heaven  ! 
6 


LITTLE  SHELLS. 


FAREWELL  f 

Farewell !  I  press  an  aching  brow ; 

Oh  !  do  we  look  our  last  ? 
I  cannot  love  you  less,  though  now 

I  blend  you  with  the  past ; 
Farewell !  unclasp  my  throbbing  hand, 
And  grasp  jt  in  the  "  better  land  !  "     * 


THE  CARELESS  WORD.  iri 


THE   CARELESS   WORD. 

I  '11  tell  you  something,  neighbors  all, 
You  need  not  mind  revealing  ; 

A  word  is  like  the  graceless  ball 
The  tumble-bug  is  wheeling ; 

A  little  piece  of  dirt,  you  know, 
When  first  its  owner  takes  it, 

But  watch  it,  and  you  '11  see  it  grow 

As  through  the  streets  she  rakes  it. 

You  'd  better  never  say  a  word 

Than  certain  things  to  mention 
Which  may  be  true,  but,  if  they  're  stirred, 

Ne'er  suffer  a  declension ; 
They  travel  on,  from  mouth  to  mouth, 

And  magnify  in  going ; 
They  never  stop  for  rain  nor  drouth, 

Nor  tarry  when  it 's  snowing. 


H2  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

Just  like  the  ball  the  tumble-bug 

Is  rolling,  rolling,  rolling, 
The  word  which  malice  gives  the  tug 

Increases  with  its  bowling  • 
You  utter  but  a  careless  thing, 

And  hardly  know  you  Ve  said  it, 
Till  startled  by  its  thundering  ring 

Where  "  bosom  friends  "  have  spread  it. 


LIFE1 8  UNDER  CURRENT.  II3 


LIFE'S   UNDER   CURRENT. 

There  is  an  under  current,  coursing 
'Neath  the  surface  wave  of  life, 

And  the  outer  and  the  inner 
Often  meet  in  secret  strife  ; 

But  the  inner  is  the  stronger, 

Darker,  deeper,  rougher,  longer, 
And  with  dangers  rife. . 

Look,  O  man,  upon  thy  brother, 
Ever  wavering,  nor  condemn — • 

Canst  thou  know  the  secret  anguish 
Struggling  in  his  bosom,  when 

He  is  fitful  and  unsteady, 

Always  hurrying — never  ready — 
Here,  and  there  again. 

Life  is  full  of  cares  and  sorrows 
To  each  child  of  Adam's  race ; 


LITTLE  SHELLS. 

Care  may  leave  the  brow  no  furrows, 

Smothered  passions  leave  no  trace : 
Grief  may  leave  no  outward  semblance 
Of  the  agonized  remembrance 
Only  one  can  trace. 

Disappointment's  canker  eateth 
Deep  into  the  bosom's  core, 

And  the  proud  and  tireless  watcher 
Guardeth  well  that  bosom's  door, 

Lest  perchance  a  stranger's  finger 

Lift  the  latch  where  sorrows  linger, 
Time  ne'er  covered  o'er. 

Chide  not  then  a  wayward  brother, 
But  with  all  his  weakness  bear ; 

Touch  his  heart-strings  lightly,  gently, 
Lest  a  world  of  grief  be  there  ; 

And  that  deep  and  hidden  river 

Sweepeth  o'er  his  hopes  forever, 
Though  a  smile  he  wear. 


LIFE'S  UNDER  CUKRENT.  115 

On  its  bosom,  dark  and  briny, 

Floateth  many  a  spectral  thing ; 
And  the  lost  and  long  lamented 

O'er  its  waves  their  shadows  fling ; 
And  the  loved  and  absent  meet  us — 
Walking  on  its  waves  they  greet  us, 

Beckoning — vanishing. 

Slighted  friendship  there  reposes, 

Subject  to  a  stubborn  will ; 
Wounded  love  his  eyelids  closes 

While  his  heart  is  beating  still ; 
Passion's  fires  cast  their  ashes 
On  that  turbid  stream  that  dashes 

Memory's  fount  to  fill. 

Oh  !  that  dark  and  dismal  river, 

Flowing  to  the  sea  of  death  ! 
Sweeping  in  its  course  forever 

Hope's  dead  flowers,  and  Faith's  dead  wreath. 
Under-current  darkly  flowing, 
While  life's  outer  wave  is  glowing 

Stilly  as  a  breath. 


n6  LITTLE  SHELLS. 


GOD   OVER   ALL. 

Why  breaks  the  heart,  because  the  hand 

Is  held  so  long  in  thrall, 
While  slander  flings  her  blazing  brand 

To  scorch  us  in  our  fall  ? 
On  God's  eternal  promise  stand, 

For  he  is  over  all. 

Though  friendship  fails,  and  love  grows  cold, 

And  honor  turns  to  dust ; 
Though  human  wolves  invade  the  fold 

Of  home  wherein  we  trust, 
He  yet  is  true  who  was  of  old 

The  refuge  of  the  just. 

Helpless  our  life-bark  seems  to  go 

On  sorrow's  stormy  sea  ; 
But  One  is  with  us  who  doth  know 

Where  all  the  breakers  be  ; 
The  unseen  Pilot  whispers  low, 

"  Be  calm,  and  trust  in  Me." 


SUNSHINE  F1UENDS. 


117 


SUNSHINE  FRIENDS. 

As  the  moth  the  sunshine  flecking 
Are  the  friends  in  fortune's  train ; 

From  your  path  the  shadow  blots  them, 
Never  to  return  again. 

Sometimes  to  us  in  the  darkness 
Comes  a  full  hand  with  a  kiss ; 

For  some  angel  spirits  linger 
In  a  world  as  cold  as  this. 

But  it  is  not  all  who  meet  them — 
They  are  "  far  between  "  and  "  few  ; " 

Wait  not  for  their  blessed  coming — 
They  may  never  come  to  you. 

Weep  not  for  the  friends  unfaithful ; 
Hope  not  for  the  friends  to  come  ; 
Council  with  the  soul  within  you  ; 

Up  !  and  work  your  passage  home  ! 
6* 


n8  LITTLE  SHELLS. 


THE   SECRET. 

I  have  not  told — I  will  not  tell — 

It  is  my  secret  yet ; 
An  ice-bound  stream — a  covered  well 

No  lips  but  mine  have  met. 

I  thank  Thee,  God  !  for  power  to  hide 

Beneath  the  smile  I  wear, 
The  weight  of  grief — the  wound  of  pride- 

The  withered  track  of  care. 

I  thank  Thee  none  hath  power  to  show, 

Against  this  stubborn  will, 
One  wavelet  of  the  sea  below 

That  rolls  so  dark  and  still. 

In  vain  inquiring  eyes  may  rest 

On  marble  brow  and  cheek  ; 
They  cannot  pierce  the  guarded  breast, 

And  find  the  thing  they  seek ! 


THE  SECRET. 

Fight  on,  O  Heart !  disguised  alone 

In  life's  mysterious  war ; 
Yet  listening  to  the  undertone 

Of  promise  from  afar. 

With  firmer  lip  and  steadier  eye 

Direct  thy  pilgrim  feet ; 
Nor  on  thy  future's  white-leaved  sky 

One  canceled  star  repeat. 


120  LITTLE  SHELLS. 


EARLY   MARRIAGES. 

You,  twenty,  saying,  "  Life  is  brief, 

And  hence  I  wed  to-morrow," 
With  ne'er  a  dollar  in  relief 

For  days  of  pain  and 'sorrow, 
Will  find  that  life  is  long  enough 

When  store  bills  come  like  hail — 
When  creditors  are  growing  rough, 

And  no  man  "goes  "  your  "  bail." 

* 
And,  you  sixteen,  with  lily  hands, 

In  trailing  gauze  and  satin, 
That  dream  of  Hymen's  silken  bands 

O'er  books  of  French  and  Latin  ; 
Who  make  your  heaven  of  dress  and  forms, 

And  all  that 's  gay  and  funny ; 
Know  life's  wide  sea  is  flecked  with  storms— 

Keep  close  to  father's  money. 


' IT  IS  NOTHING  TO  DIE  IF  YOU'RE  NOTED."    1 2 1 


"IT  IS  NOTHING  TO  DIE  IF  YOU'RE  NOTED." 

It  is  nothing  to  die  if  you  're  noted, 

And  are  sure  of  your  guerdon  of  praise ; 
If  you  're  properly  married  and  voted, 

And  rode  out  with  your  "  sorrels  "  or  "  greys  ; " 
If  you  've  had  the  good  sense  to  keep  shady 

While  the  party  nags  stood  in  the  stall, 
And  then  sprung  to  the  back  of  the  foremost 

Just  in  time  for  "an  office  next  fall." 

It  is  nothing  at  all  to  be  shrouded, 

If  the  flags  hang  half-mast  in  the  bay; 
If  you  Ve  given  the  churches  ten  thousand, 

While  you  hid  half  a  million  away ; 
If  you  've  sent  a  gold  cup  to  a  nabob, 

Though  you  winked  at  your  brother's  of  tin  ; 
If  your  name  is  in  Charity's  ledger, 

It  is  not  in  man's  record  of  sin, 


122  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

It  is  nothing  at  all  to  be  lying 

With  the  grave  pebbles  over  your  breast ; 
If  you  've  sermonized  well  at  your  dying, 

You  are  u  sainted  "  as  well  as  the  best  ; 
You  can  list  from  the  ghost-hills  delighted, 

While  your  eulogists  thunder  and  roar, 
And  read  newspaper  poems,  and  stories 

Of  yourself  never  heard  of  before. 

It  is  nothing  at  all  to  be  numbered 

• 

With  the  mortals  whose  spirits  have  flown, 
If  the  sins  that  mortality  cumbered 

Through  life's  glitter  and  glare  were  unknown ; 
You  have  leased  you  an  earthly  remembrance 

(Though  you  've  lost  upon  Heaven  your  claim) 
By  your  right  hand's  most  royal  disbursements, 

Though  your  left  starved  your  sister  to  shame. 


1  FOUND  DEAU! 


"FOUND   DEAD!" 

Chaunt  a  requiem  for  our  brother ! 

Let  its  notes  be  soft  and  low 
As  the  lullaby  his  mother 

Murmured  o'er  him  long  ago  ; 
For  her  sweet  sake,  if  she  liveth — 
For  his  wife's  sake,  if  one  grieveth, 

Be  our  utterance  sad  and  slow. 

Hath  he  children  ?  none  assembling 
Round  him  for  the  last  farewell  ? 

Let  our  harp  strings,  faint  and  trembling, 
For  their  anguish  gently  swell ; 

ForVhe  sakes  of  all  that  love  him, 

Breathe  a  requiem  above  him 
Soothing  as  a  holy  spell. 

For  the  friends  that  gathered  round  him 
When  his  young  pulse  gladly  beat, 


124'  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

Ere  the  chains  of  care  had  bound  him — 

Ere  his  best  hope  proved  a  cheat  ; 
Sing  a  song  so  sad  and  lonely, 
They  who  hear  him  then  can  only, 
When  they  hear,  in  sobs  repeat. 

Peace  to  thee,  O  Pilgrim,  weary  ! 

Fallen  on  life's  battle  plain  ; 
Haply,  when  its  hills  were  cheery, 

Sad  misfortune  shared  thy  gain  ; 
Haply,  in  its  twilight  groping 
Down  the  last  league,  rough  and  sloping, 

No  man  asked  thy  "  mite  "  in  vain. 

God  !  who  formed  the  heart  so  tender, 
"  Frailty  "  wrote  on  every  string  ; 

Christ !  thy  Saviour  and  Defender, 
Is  thy  only  judge  and  king ; 

Rest  in  peace,  O  stranger  brother  ! 

Child  afar,  or  wife,  or  mother, 
For  thy  sake  this  song  we  sing. 


1  SERPENTS  IN  THE  GRASS."  125 


"SERPENTS   IN   THE   GRASS." 

Let  lions  meet  me  in  the  way, 
And  thunder  as  they  pass  ; 

But  save  me,  wheresoe'er  I  stray, 
From  "  serpents  in  the  grass." 

I  like  the  man  that 's  bold  and  fair, 

And  says,  "  Behold  your  foe  ! 
Come  meet  me  openly,  and  there 
We  '11  battle  blow  for  blow  ! " 

But  words  are  all  too  weak  to  tell 

My  loathing,  my  disgust, 
For  such  as  feign  to  love  me  well, 

And  then  betray  my  trust. 


126  LITTLE  SHELLS. 


HEART   LIFE   IN   CALIFORNIA. 

My  native  land  !  my  native  land  ! 

A  long  farewell  to  thee  ! 
Where  setting  sunbeams  kiss  the  strand 

I  dwell  beside  tli£  sea. 

Some  joys  are  mine — some  jewels  flash 

Across  my  path  of  pride  ; 
But  oft  I  turn  away  to  dash 

Regret's  hot  tear  aside. 

I  love  those  purpling  hills  afar, 
Where  first  I  saw  the  light ; 

And  cradled  'neath  the  morning  star, 
Slept  sweetly  in  its  white. 

The  heart — the  heart  too  fondly  clings 
Unto  its  earlier  home  ; 


HEART  LIFE  IN  CALIFORNIA.  I2y 


And  round  its  hallowed  altar  flings 
A  glory  all  its  own. 

The  stranger  speaks  ;  his  words  are  kind  ; 

He  gives  the  welcome  hand  ; 
But  O  !  the  tears  these  eyes  that  blind — 

How  can  he  understand  ? 

I  cannot  share  the  stranger's  load  ; 

He  cannot  help  with  mine  ; 
Each  treads  alone  his  dreary  road, 

And  sighs  for  "auld  lang  syne." 

Familiar  forms  in  visions  come 

To  meet  my  earnest  gaze  ; 
I  listen  for  the  tones  of  home, 

As  in  departed  days. 

I  hide  from  all  one  dismal  woe — 

One  pictured  form  of  clay ; 
Whose  white  lips  utter,  sad  and  low, 

Their  anguish  at  my  stay. 


I28  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

It  were  too  much  ;  I  could  not  tear 
From  out  this  aching  breast 

A  single  memory  treasured  there, 
Till  memory's  self  shall  rest. 

Accursed  gold  !  vile  yellow  dust ! 

Worms,  crawling  in  thy  wake  ! 
Our  hearts  consume  with  cankering  rust, 

And  ere  we  grasp  thee — break  ! 


CONFIDANTS! 


CONFIDANTS  ! 

If  you  Ve  told  a  whiskered  sinner 

Everything  you  know, 
Go  invite  him  home  to  dinner 

Every  day  or  so  ; 
Follow  him  to  clubs  and  races  ; 

Hug  him  in  the  street ; 
Jostle  him  throughout  life's  phases, 

Whispering,  "  don't  repeat !  " 
Better  thus  your  feet  should  patter 

Double  in  and  out, 
Than  your  richest  u  pearls  "  he  scatter 

In  some  "  swinish  "  route  j 
If  you  've  had  a  fair  "  confessor," 

Take  advice,  O  fool ! 
Neither  slight  her  nor  oppress  her — 

Pet  her,  and  keep  cool ; 


I3o  LITTLE  SHELLS. 


Keep  in  sight,  thou  babbling  human, 

All  that  hold  thy  trust ! 
Secrets,  left  with  man  or  woman, 

Seldom  stay  to  rust. 


NOBODY  WANTS   YOU  LONG.  13 x 


NOBODY  WANTS  YOU   LONG. 

As  I  've  sped  on  life's  errands  I  Ve  noticed  one  thing 
Which,  without  any  charge  I  '11  impart ; 

It  is  this  :  that  the  time  'twixt  the  visitor's  ring 
At  the  cloor,  and  "  good-bye,"  should  be  short ; 

In  the  human  hive,  swarming  from  morning  till  night- 

Though  I  'm  sure  such  a  truth  I  reluctantly  write  : 
Nobody  wants  you  long. 

Hang  your  hat  on  that  peg  but  a  moment  at  best, 
And  remark,  you  do  n't  purpose  to  stay, 

Lest  my  lady,  expecting  a  welcome  guest, 
May  be  anxious  to  bid  you  "  good-day  !  " 

Get  you  gone,  ere  her  little  feet  pat  on  the  floor ! 

And  she  says  in  her  heart,  "  What  a  pitiful  bore — " 
Nobody  wants  you  long. 


I3 2  LITTLE  SHELLS. 


Though  your  sweetheart  consent  to  be  married  next  fall — 

And  we  give  her  much  credit  for  tact — 
She 's  afraid  you  may  meet  Lover  Two  in  the  hall, 

And  a  duel  might  come  of  the  fact ; 
Then  she  wants,  while  yet  free,  to  be  gay  as  a  kitten ; 
Do  n't  be  always  on  hand,  or  she  '11  give  you  the  mitten." 
Nobody  wants  you  long. 

I  am  naughty,  at  last,  such  a  secret  to  mention, 

Which  I  learned  of  those  men  by  mere  chance ; 
They  begrudge  you  their  time,  while  they  grant  you  atten- 
tion, 

If  you  linger  all  day  in  their  haunts  -, 
Keep  your  foot  on  the  door-sill,  your  eye  on  the  clock, 
Till  you  're  off  to  the  counter,  the  desk,  or  the  dock — 
Nobody  wants  you  long. 


A  PRAYER  FOR  PEACE. 


A   PRAYER   FOR   PEACE. 

Peace,  God  of  Concord !  wreathe  our  blood-stained  soil 
With  olive  blossoms,  starting  from  its  red ; 

Peace,  God  of  Mercy !  pour  thy  healing  oil 
O'er  wounded  bosoms  bleeding  for  their  dead ; 

Peace — Lo  !  our  martyrs  ask  it  at  thy  throne, 

Where  earthly  passions  are  no  longer  known. 

Peace !     Hear  not  thou  the  angry  prayer  of  Hate 

That,  wrapped  in  sackcloth  pants  and  thirsts  for  blood, 

Erect  and  haughty  knocking  at  thy  gate, 

Crying,  "  Is  due  me  at  thy  hands,  O  God  ! — 

My  brother's  life-lease — and  I  cannot  rest 

Until  I  tear  it  o'er  his  prostrate  breast " 


I34  LITTLE  SHELLS. 


MODERN    CHARITY.  - 

Our  charity  of  modern  times 

Is  seldom  found  at  home  ; 
She 's  always  "  very  scant "  of  dimes, 

When  starving  neighbors  come  ; 
But  builds  her  churches  broad  and  high, 

And  enters  there  demure  ; 
Hush  !  don  't  disturb  her  with  your  cry — 

She's  praying  for  "  tJte  poor." 


THE  CRITIC. 


THE    CRITIC. 

Write  on  !  the  critic  scents  no  common  food  ; 

Shrewd  epicurean,  what  he  bites  is  good ; 

He  hails  the  tenderest  of  the  author  class, 

And  says :  "  Aha  ! — too  poor  to  buy  a  pass  ! " 

Then  nails  them,  shrinking,  to  his  fiendish  rack, 

While  low-mouthed  envy  titters  at  his  back ; 

He  mocks  the  fearful  who  attempt  to  sing ; 

His  barb  he  buries  in  the  timid  wing ; 

Write  on !  ye  suffer,  but  ye  shall  not  die  ; 

God  drops  no  star  from  mind's  imperial  sky ; 

Like  trampled  Truth  ye  '11  rise  with  quickened  powers, 

Whose  hardier  stalks  shall  bear  immortal  flowers. 


136  LITTLE  SHELLS. 


THE   PRAYER   OF   WASHINGTON. 


While  the  American  army  lay  encamped  in  a  deplorable  state  of  nakedness  and 
starvation  at  Valley  Forge,  a  Quaker  named  Potts,  passing  a  secluded  spot,  heard  the 
voice  of  some  one  in  prayer.  "Stealing  quietly  forward,  he  saw  Washington's  horse 
tied  to  a  sapling,  and  a  little  farther  on,  in  a  thicket,  was  the  Chief  on  his  knees,  tears 
streaming  down  his  cheeks,  beseeching  Heaven  for  the  army  and  his  country." 


Where  rock  on  rock  is  piled, 
Where  lordly  oaks  are  clasped  by  graceful  vines, 
And  murmuring  brooklets  wander  through  the  pines, 

And  all  is  rude  and  wild ; 

Where  leaps  from  tree  to  tree 
The  graceful  squirrel — where  the  wild  bird  sings 
Farewell  to  autumn,  on  departing  wings, 

And  hums  the  busy  bee ; 

There,  where  no  voice  is  heard, 
Save  the  low  insects,  mid  the  brown  and  green, 
And  those  sweet  bird-notes ;  while  the  leafy  screen 

By  their  light  wings  is  stirred ; 


THE   PR  AYE  11   OF    WASHINGTON. 

There,  low  on  bended  knee, 
His  broad  brow  lifted  to  the  arching  sky, 
With  folded  hands,  and  meek  imploring  eye, 

He  prays,  O  God  !  to  Thee. 

"  Father  ! "     His  heart  is  sad 
For  those  poor  sufferers  yonder  in  the  camp ; 
Disease  is  there ;  their  huts  are  cold  and  damp  ; 

They  ask  in  vain  for  bread. 


"  Father  !"     In  years  agone, 
A  Christian  mother  taught  those  lips  to  pray, 
And  yet  he  hears,  though  youth  has  passed  away, 

That  gentle  teacher's  tone. 

"  Father ! "     What  can  he  do  ? 
Those  hearts,  unflinching  mid  the  battle's  storm, 
Shrink  back  appalled  at  famine's  haggard  form ; 

How  can  THE  STARVED  be  true  ? 

Long  shadows  drape  the  hill  ; 
His  voice  alone  goes  trembling  o'er  the  hush 


137 


138  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

Which  slowly  settles  over  plain  and  bush, 
Till  day's  glad  pulse  is  still. 

How  can  he  let  Thee  go  ! 
As  Jacob  wrestled  with  his  Lord  of  old, 
With  breaking  heart,  yet  faith's  unbroken  hold, 

He  wrestles  with  Thee  now. 

The  precious  blessing  came — 
Long-suffering  freedom  struggled  into  birth — 
Linked  with  his  country's  glory,  o  'er  the  earth 

Echoes  his  honored  name. 

I 

"  Pray  always/'    One  hath  said  : 
Columbia's  heart  entombs  her  Washington ; 
But  who  shall  say  her  freedom  was  not  won, 

Because  in  faith  he  prayed  ? 


HOW  CAN  I  FORGIVE? 


HOW   CAN   I   FORGIVE? 

% 

How  can  I  forgive  ?  they  have  clouded  my  brow ; 
With  the  net-work  of  care  they  have  traced  it-; 
From  my  lip  and  my  cheek  they  have  banished  the  glow, 
Ere  the  finger  of  time  had  effaced  it. 

How  can  I  forgive  !  they  are  crying  "  aha  !  " 

As  the  hopes  of  my  life  are  receding ; 
With  a  laugh  and  a  sneer  they  are  turning  away, 

Crushing  over  the  heart  that  lies  bleeding. 

How  can  I  forgive  ?  from  the  depths  of  despair 

I  have  cried  unto  them  unregarded ; 
Yea,  they  troubled  the  waves  overwhelming  me  there, 

And  my  struggle  for  life  was  retarded. 

How  can  I  forgive  ?  upon  Calvary's  tree 

Hung  a  sufferer,  blameless  forever, 
Saying,  "  Father  forgive  !  "  shall  a  sinner  like  me 
Say,  "  I  will  not  forgive  them  ?  "  no — never  ! 


LITTLE  SHELLS. 


THE   POET'S   LOT. 

i 

The  poet's  lot 
Is  an  empty  cot, 

Whose  roof  is  the  upper  blue ; 
And  he  measures  his  song, 
Through  the  nights  so  long, 

By  the  rain  as  it  patters  through. 

The  poet's  head 
On  an  earthy  bed, 

And  a  wooden  pillow  lies  ; 
While  the  wind  doth  blow, 
And  the  sheets  of  snow, 

Come  and  cover  him  up  to  his  eyes. 
• 

The  poet's  dreams 
Are  beautiful  beams 

From  the  land  where  all  is  bright ; 


THE  POETS  LOT. 

And  at  break  of  day, 
With  no  debts  to  pay, 

He  sings  on  with  a  bosom  light. 

The  poet's  rest 

Is  within  his  breast, 

« 

Where  the  cold  world  can 't  intrude ; 
And  he  eats  his  crust, 
With  a  humble  trust 

In  the  only  Great  and  Good. 

7* 


141 


142 


LITTLE   SHELLS. 


LIFE'S  WORK    IS    NEVER   DONE. 

Strange  languor  through  my  being  stole, 
Unsteady  pulses  heaved  my  breast ; 

On  either  cheek  a  crimson  coal, 

Like  fire  on  snow  at  eve,  was  pressed ; 

Could  death  be  near?     Oh  !  not  so  soon — 

My  life-star  lingered  at  its  noon, 
Far,  far  away  from  West. 

They  told  me  of  those  meteor  balls 

Which  midway  from  the  blue  are  tossed  ; 

They  bade  me  mark  the  leaf  that  falls 
Ere  Summer's  drought  or  Winter's  frost ; 

"  To  us  "  they  said  "  those  stars  are  dim — 

That  leaf  is  dead — but  not  to  Him 
Whose  works  are  never  lost." 

My  feet,  reluctant,  trod  the  strand 
Where  lay  beneath  the  silent  sea ; 


LIFE'S    WORK  JS   XKVEK  DOXK. 

Beyond  it  loomed  the  Better  Land, 

Where  pain  and  care  no  more  should  be  ; 
But,  backward  still  my  vision  turned — 
For  things  behind  my  spirit  yearned, 
And  work  undone  by  me. 

And  there,  beside  that  sea  of  graves, 
For  many  months  and  years  I  stood 

Where  AzraePs  flag  forever  waves — 
Oh  !  dark,  mysterious,  sullen  flood, 

*'  Go  down,"  they  said,  "  nor  wish  to  stay ; 

Their  pilot  cannot  miss  the  way 
Who  put  their  trust  in  God." 

Alas  !  the  hopes  which  death  must  still ; 

The  plans  in  flower  which  tears  had  wet ; 
The  crushing  of  that  iron  will 

Which  linked  these  plans  to  glory  yet ; 
High  aims,  through  toil  and  anguish  sought, 
Deferred  by  scorn,  to  heaven  had  brought 

The  earth-sigh  of  regret. 


144  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

Near  and  more  near  the  billows  swept ; 

My  feet  sank  in  the  sliding  sands ; 
Around  my  brow  the  coldness  crept, 

And  touched  with  ice  my  ashen  hands  ; 
Yet  still  I  prayed,  with  pulses  low, 
And  white  lips  stiffening  in  their  woe, 

For  life's  poor  straining  bands. 

• 
Life  !  life  ! "  I  gasped — my  feeble  arm 

Yet  pleading  as  my  utterance  died  ; 
Life's  angel  caught  my  sinking  form, 

And  bore  me  back  from  death's  darfrtide  ; 
He  touched  my  lips  with  fire  anew, 
The  sluggish  current  bounded  through 

The  veins,  so  shrunk  and  dried. 

But,  in  my  ear  he  murmured  soft, 

"Now  speed  thy  work  in  faith  begun, 

For,  as  I  bear  thy  form  aloft, 

Truth's  angel  whispers  i  Never  done  ! 

She  lives  again,  to  weep — to  weave 

Bright  webs  of  glass,  which  straws  shall  cleave, 
As  mesh  on  mesh  is  spun.'  v 


Tin:  7M,y,S7A7/  YEAH.  145 


THE  PASSING  YEAR. 

Passing  year,  thy  shadows  lay 
Heavy  on  my  heart  alway ; 
Backward  with  regretful  look, 
Turn  I  to  thy  closing  book ; 
Cherished  hopes  as  dreams  have  sped, 
Lights  I  chased  but  danced  and  fled, 
And  the  loved  ones,  true  and  tried, 
As  I  leaned  upon  them,  died. 
Here  I  hold  a  (j^ss  of  hair  ; 
Yonder  stands  the  "  vacant  chai?;  " 
Hands  that  plucked  that  faded  rose 
Moulder  in  their  last  repose. 
Mirror  mine  !  thou  giv'st  not  me 
Just  the  face  I  asked  of  thee  ; 
Darker  shadows  cross  the  brow  ; 
Lines  of  care  are  deeper  now ; 


346  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

Heavier  pulses  heave  the  breast 
Wearier  spirit  longs  for  rest. 
Ponder  this,  O  heart  of  mine  ! 
Holier  grow,  as  years  decline 


no  MI-:. 


MY   WESTERN    HOME. 

Softly  lies  the  roseate  glow, 
On  these  Eastern  hills  of  snow  ; 
Gaze  I  where  the  sun  goes  clown, 
On  the  hills  of  white  and  brown, 
Thinking  of  my  home  away, 
Neath  that  setting  orb  of  clay — 
My  western  home. 

Stars  unnumbered  o'er  me  rise, 
Fire-drops  in  the  azure  skies  ; 
One  by  one  I  miss  their  light, 
From  the  diadem  of  night ; 
Miss  them  with  a  starting  tear, 
For  they  seem  to  set  so  near 
My  western  home. 

Morning  brings  her  host  of  cares, 
Lights  her  fires,  and  spreads  her  wares ; 


148  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

Noontide  comes  with  kindlier  face  \ 
Winter  smiles  with  kindlier  grace  ; 
Here  I  grasp  a  friendly  hand  ; 
Here  I  meet  a  cordial  band, 
But  sigh  for  home. 

I  have  pressed  anew  the  sod 
Where  my  infant  footsteps  trod ; 
I  have  stood  beneath  the  walls 
Echoing  once  a  mother's  calls  ; 
Listening  there  I  held  my  breath, 
For  the  voices  hushed  in  death — 
Oh !  desolate  home. 

While  I  waited  for  the  tones 
Of  the  dear  departed  ones, 
Living  forms  and  voices  came — 
Living  sisters  called  my  name ; 
Brothers  of  the  heart  said,  u  come  ! 
Welcome  weary  wanderer  home — 
Come  home,  come  home  !  " 


MY   WESTERN  HOME. 

I  have  bent  with  reverent  brow 

0  'er  a  father's  ashes  now  ; 

1  have  walked  with  softly  tread 
Round  a  sister's  narrow  bed  ; 
But  I  love  a  baby's  grave 
Where  the  western  forests  wave — 


I  must  go  home. 


Hearts  are  there  long  known  and  loved — 
Hearts  by  time  and  sorrow  proved  ; 
Hearts  that  saw  me  fade  and  pine, 
Like  a  rudely  broken  vine, 
Seeming  not  to  love  me  less 
For  my  load  of  wretchedness — 
I  will  go  home. 

Mother  may  forget  her  child  ; 
Friends  may  frown  who  once  have  smiled ; 
Trust  may  be  repulsed  with  scorn  ; 
Love  may  plight  her  faith  to  mourn  ; 
But  till  memory's  light  shall  set, 
Never  can  my  soul  forget 
MY  western  home. 


LITTLE  SHELLS, 


"THE   HEART   WAS    SO    HOLLOW   INSIDE." 

I  sat  in  a  lady's  parlor ; 

The  lady  was  very  fair ; 
Silks  rustled  at  every  motion, 

And  jewels  gleamed  in  her  hair  ; 
For  she  was  a  rich  man's  lady, 

And  able  such  things  to  wear. 

• 
She  sat  embroidering  worsted, 

In  the  sun's  declining  light, 
And  smiled  on  two  rosy  children, 

As  she  stitched  in  the  scarlet  and  white, 
The  orange,  and  green,  and  purple  ; 

And  I  thought  it  a  beautiful  sight. 


But  I  heard  a  sound  of  footsteps, 
Of  little,  pattering  feet, 


"  THE  HEART  WAS  SO  HOLLOW  INSIDE. 

Just  as  the  wind  was  rising, 

And  the  rain  was  turning  to  sleet ; 

And  heard  two  wee-bit  voices, 

As  the  storm  on  the  windows  beat. 

Then  I  heard  the  door  bell  ringing, 
And  ringing,  and  ringing,  in  vain, 

And  the  tones  of  the  wee-bit  voices, 
As  I  listened  and  listened  again ; 

And  the  harsh  rebuke  of  a  servant 
Rang  out  through  the  icy  rain. 

Then  those  pattering  feet  came  nearer ; 

And  close  by  the  window  was  %id 
A  little  white  face,  and  round  it 

Bright  curls  of  chestnut  played  ; 
"That  face  was  hollow  and  hungry, 

And  the  little  white  lips  said : 

"  A  small  bit  of  bread,  good  lady, 
For  my  little  brother  and  me  ; 


152  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

We  have  tried  to  get  work,  but  cannot ; 

We  are  so  /////<?,  you  see, 
That  the  men  only  laugh,  when  we  ask  them  ; 

Oh  !  lady,  so  hungry  we  be  ! " 

Then  she  lifted  her  eyes  from  the  worsted, 
Her  smile  giving  place  to  a  frown, 

And  her  voice  grew  sharp  and  angry, 
And  she  said,  "  Dirty  beggar,  begone  1 

Your  fingers  will  mark  the  window  ; 
Get  down,  noisy  fellow,  get  down  ! 

Street  beggars  are  troublesome  creatures," 
She  femarked,  as  her  needle  she  plied ; 

But,  the  beauty  I  worshiped  had  vanished, 
For  the  heart  was  so  hollow  inside ; 

I  wondered  if  under  all  heaven 

Was  another  so  shrunken  and  dried. 

I  followed  those  sobbing  children, 
Away  o'er  the  desolate  moor, 


"  THE  HEART  WAS  SO  HOLLOW  INSIDE: 

Till  their  little  blue  fingers  lifted 
The  latch  of  their  mother's  door, 

Where  the  rain  beat  down  through  the  rafters, 
And  froze,  as  it  streamed  o'er  the  floor. 

I  bent  o'er  her  hard,  cold  pillow ; 

She  whispered,  "  Oh  !  give  them  bread  !  " 
And  I  answered,  "  God,  help  me,  only 

As  I  stand  in  their  mother's  stead  " — 
With  her  heart's  last  throb  she  blessed  me, 

Then  want's  poor  child  was  dead. 


153 


LITTLE  SHELLS. 


THE   CITY   OF   THE   FLEAS. 

I  want  to  sing  a  little  song, 
The  country  folks  to  please, 

And  make  them  happy  where  they  are — 
A  song  about  the  fleas. 

The  rains  were  gone,  the  crops  were  in, 

And  wife  began  to  teaze 
To  see  the  city  on  the  bay; 

She  never  thought  of  fleas. 

"  Take  me,  papa,"  said  petted  Kate, 
That  romped  beneath  the  trees  ; 

"  I  would  be  still  and  good — I  would  !  " 
She  had  not  heard  of  fleas. 

So  down  we  went  by  stage  and  cars, 
Through  dust  that  made  us  sneeze, 


THE  CITY  OF   THE  FLEAS. 

Took  lodgings  at  The  Grand  Hotel, 
But  never  "  ordered  "  fleas. 

Wife  bought  a  wig,  a  "  Grecian  bend," 

And  things  to  match  with  these, 
And  soon  her  trailing  skirts  began 

To  gather  in  the  fleas. 

We  walked,  and  rode,  and  felt  as  proud 

As  any  rich  grandees  ; 
Well  pleased  with  all  we  saw — except 

The  San  Francisco  fleas. 

We  went  to  "  Woodward's  Gardens,"  and 

Were  happy,  if  you  please, 
But  took  a  host  of  "  bosom  friends  " 

We  did  not  pay  for — fleas. 

We  went  to  hear  "  Grace  Greenwood  "  speak  ; 
I  sat  firm  as  a  cheese, 


155 


156  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

Till  stung  "  to  death,"  from  head  to  heel, 
By  those  terrific  fleas. 

I  tried  to  be  sublime,  and  soar 
Above  low  things  like  these, 

When  wife,  within  her  crinoline,. 
Whispered,  "  O_dear  !  the  fleas  !  " 

6  Papa !  "  aloud  screamed  little  Kate, 
"  They  're  eating  up  my  knees  !  " 
And  quick  I  bolted  for  the  street, 
With  family — and  fleas. 

We  went  to  see  "  The  Fourth  of  July, 
And  faced  a  cutting  bjre&ze, 

That  whirled  the  sand  about  our  ears, 
Peppered  throughout  with  fleas. 

We  went  to  see  all  sights — all  sounds 
That  any  hears  or  sees  ; 


THE  CITY  OF   THE  FLEAS. 

But  memory's  landmarks,  slightly  set, 
Are  toppling  o'er  with  fleas. 

You  may  be  rich,  you  may  be  great, 

But  can  not  live  at  ease, 
And  share  your  sheets  and  pantaloons 

With  half  a  million  fleas. 

Wife  says  to-day,  "  This  dear  old  house, 

So  cosy  in  the  trees, 
Is  better  than  a  palace  in 

The  City  of  the  Fleas !  " 
8 


157 


158  LITTLE  SHELLS. 


"SOMETHING  THAT  WAS   MY   MOTHER'S.'' 

Far  in  an  eastern  homestead, 

A  thousand  miles  away, 
Where  an  estate  was  settled, 

And  came  the  "  auction  "  day  j 

A  tall  man  bore  him  proudly — 

The  son  executor ; 
The  auctioneer  was  screaming, 

And  all  the  crowd  astir. 

In  lots  were  things  assorted 
To  give  them  speedier  sale — 

Sofas,  and  chairs,  and  tables, 
Bedding  and  linen  pale. 

All  sorts  of  curious  glasses, 
And  delicate  china  ware, 


"  SOMETHING  THAT  WAS  MY  MOTHER'S.' 

Carpets,  and  quilts,  and  blankets, 
In  deft  array  were  there. 

Naught  was  of  latest  fashion, 
But  all  unmarred  and  good  ; 

My  duty  was  to  purchase 
As  cheaply  as  I  could. 

I  stood  before  the  china, 

Awaiting  for  its  turn, 
Attracted  by  some  vases, 

And  one  neat  breakfast  urn. 

I  heard  a  voice  behind  me — 

A  low  beseeching  tone — 
Say,  "  Something  that  was  mother's, 

One  little  vase  or  spoon." 

I  heard  the  surly  answer : 

"  The  last  thing  shall  be  sold  ; 


159 


160  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

Our  father  left  you  nothing  ; 
How  can  you  be  so  bold  ? " 

"  O,  yes  !  my  angry  father 

Left  all  his  wealth  to  you, 
But  I  am  still  your  sister ; 
One  angel  loved  the  two. 

"  Something  that  was  my  mother's," 
She  pleaded  low  again  ; 

"  Some  little  thing  of  beauty, 
Or  this  old  counterpane." 

And  fast  her  bony  fingers 
Ran  nervous  o'er  its  flowers, 

Their  knotted  outlines  tracing, 
As  in  her  childhood's  hours. 

"  Give  me  this  one  thing,  Allen, 
And  I  will  go 


"  SOMETHING   THAT  WAS  MY  MOTHERS."     f6i 

My  mother  died  beneath  it 
Five  years  ago  to-day ." 

She  opened  wide  its  foldings ; 

She  wet  it  with  her  tears ; 
"  Away  !  "  he  sternly  muttered, 

"  How  have  you  kept  those  years  ? " 

"  I  know  I  loved  not  wisely — 
But  ah !  I  loved  too  well ; 
Please,  something  that  was  mother's — " 
The  auction  hammer  fell. 

"  Stand  back  !  "     As  Heaven  is  witness, 

A  moment  I  was  tried, 
For  I  was  there  to  purchase 
The  outfit  of  a  bride. 

But,  when  her  hand  released  it, 
I  only  felt  her  pain, 


162  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

And  bought  that  sorrowing  woman 
Her  mother's  counterpane. 

Too  full  her  thanks  to  utter ; 

My  outstretched  hand  she  kissed ; 
And  tearful  neighbors  blessed  me, 

While  "Allen's  "  name  they  hissed. 


FALL   OF   THE  CHARTER  OAK. 


163 


FALL   OF  THE   CHARTER   OAK. 

Gone,  ancient  tree  !  another  cord  doth  sunder 
Which  links  affection  to  the  hallowed  past ; 

No  more  beneath  thy  sheltering  boughs  we  ponder — 
There 's  naught  so  sacred  but  it  falls  at  last. 

Gone,  forest  monarch !  many  a  year  ago 

The  Indian  hunter  rested  in  thy  shade, 
On  thy  broad  branches  hung  the  winter's  snow, 

And  wind-rocked  cradles  with  thy  young  leaves  played. 

We  need  not  tell  thy  tale ;  the  little  child, 
Taught  by  its  mother,  lisps  it  at  the  hearth, 

How  in  thy  bosom  deftly  lay  concealed 

That  Chartered  Right  which  gave  a  nation  birth. 

How  old  wert  thou  when  great  Columbus  sailed 
O'er  the  blue  deep,  hope  in  his  bosom  rife  ? 


1 64  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

How  hath  Tradition's  misty  record  paled, 
Since  in  thy  arteries  waked  the  pulse  of  life  ! 

King  of  the  forest  where  the  wigwam  stood, 
Meet  habitation  for  rude  nature's  child, 

Where  the  brown  maiden,  mirrored  in  the  flood, 
Shook  her  dark  tresses  at  the  waves  and  smiled. 

Count  us  thy  years  :  the  hand  of  Time  hath  swept 
Thy  forest  brothers  slowly  from  thy  side ; 

City  on  city  into  life  hath  crept, 

As  westward  rolled  vast  emigration's  tide ; 

While  thou  hast  stood,  in  solemn  grandeur  still, 
AVith  outstretched  arms  thy  welcome  mute  to  say, 

And  thousands  gathered  where  thy  shadows  fell, 
Awed  by  the  relic  of  a  by-gone  day. 

No  voice.     O  man  !  short-sighted,  weak  and  vain  ! 

Mocked  by  the  mystery  of  that  ancient  tree — 
Thou  only  knowest,  'mid  winds  and  driving  rain, 

JT  is  crushed  and  scattered,  and  doth  cease  to  be. 


THE  HUMAN  BROW.  165 


THE   HUMAN   BROW. 

The  human  brow,  the  human  brow ! 

How  cold,  and  calm,  and  white  ! 
With  passion's  fire  't  is  glowing — now 

With  virtue's  holier  light ; 
It  wears  the  mystic  web  of  care, 

The  mystic  sign  of  love, 
The  impress  of  untold  despair, 

The  seal  of  Heaven  above. 

Inscribed  upon  its  arch  sublime 

It  wears  a  world  of  thought ; 
The  Day  Book  of  relentless  Time, 

'T  is  marred  with  many  a  blot ; 
The  lips  may  smile,  the  cheeks  be  dry, 

And  tell  no  tale  of  grief, 
The  breaking  heart  may  check  the  sigh 

Whose  utterance  were  relief; 


166  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

But  Nature's  tablet  still  doth  tell 

Where  sorrow  long  hath  dwelt; 
Though  lying  lips  proclaim,  "  't  is  well," 

The  brow  is  marked  with  guilt ; 
Those  stenographic  words,  so  dim, 

Elude  the  careless  gaze, 
But  Nature's  student  renders  them, 

Through  pride's  concealing  haze. 

And  he  whose  lips  are  moistened  yet 

With  sorrow's  bitter  dew, 
Will  know  his  "  brother,"  and  regret 

That  record  should  be  true ; 
Too  well  he  knows  the  dismal  sweep 

Of  agony's  cold  pen  ; 
And  shuddering  through  his  veins  doth  creep 

His  own  wild  woes  again. 

That  "  brotherhood  "  of  woe,  alas  ! 
Griefs  mute  fraternity, 


THE  IWNAN  BUO\V.  167 

• 
Unrecognized  they  come,  and  pass, 

As  bubbles  on  the  sea  ; 
Their  dim  "regalia"  is  not  seen 

By  men  of  happier  mould ; 
They  meet,  embrace,  and  part  again, 

Till  life's  sad  tale  is  told. 

% 

The  human  brow,  the  human  brow ! 

Most  hallowed  be  its  name ! 
O,  sully  not  that  sheet  of  snow, 

With  the  red  brand  of  shame ; 
Nor  lines  of  grief,  nor  lines  of  care 

Its  beauty  can  remove, 
If  "  Purity  "  be  written  there, 

By  Him  whose  name  is  "  Love. 


1 68  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

I 


"I   THANK   THEM   FOR   THEIR   SCORN." 

I  thank  them  for  their  scorn ! 
Had  they  not  rudely  on  my  heart-strings  pressed 
High  thoughts,  like  these,  that  reign  within  my  breast, 

Had  ne'er  of  hope  been  born. 

Had  they  not  coldly  cast 
Their  deep  contempt  upon  my  mental  powers, 
I  ne'er  had  dared  to  dedicate  my  hours 

To  purposes  so  vast. 

I  was  a  lonely  child — 
My  fitful  fancy  wandering  far  away — 
Though  with  my  mates  I  shouted  in  my  play, 

With  footsteps  fleet  and  wild. 

Visions  of  power  and  fame, 
"  Distant  and  dim,"  passed  o'er  my  mental  sight ; 


"I  THANK  THEM  FOJl    THEIR  tiCOHX."        169 


My  restless  spirit  panted  for  the  might 
Of  manhood's  hardier  frame. 


But  when,  at  last,  I  grew 
To  manhood's  stature,  friends  grew  strangely  cold, 
And  thought  me  foolish,  confident  and  bold, 

Because  my  strength  I  knew. 

They  claim  the  right,  supreme, 
To  fetter  down  a  free,  aspiring  mind, 
By  common  rules  its  energies  to  bind, 

And  bid  it  cease  to  dream  ! 

« 

What !  quell  the  soul  of  man  ? 
Like  the  strong  steed  that  fiercely  champs  his  bit, 
I  scorn  their  power  ;  I  can  but  stamp  and  fret, 

Till  in  life's  battle  van. 

Though  I  a  beggar  be, 

O,  soul  of  mine  !  hold  fast  thy  purpose  high, 
Till,  firmly  set  in  mind's  imperial  sky, 

Her  stars  acknowledge  thee. 


LITTLE  SHELLS. 


LETTERS. 

I  am  going  to  write — and  I  "  care  not  a  straw  " 
If  I  do  meet  the  frowns  of  my  betters ; 

For  I  know  of  no  reason  in  ethics  or  law, 
Why  I  can 't  write  a  chapter  on  "  letters," 

Those  sweet  little  messengers,  laden  though  light, 

Which  steal  in  like  good  angels,  by  day  and  by  night. 

I  care  not  for  the  paper — its  texture  or  hue, 
If  it 's  rose-tinted,  gilt-edged,  or  yellow  ; 

If  a  stiff  sheet  of  fool's-cap,  all  belted  with  blue, 
Or  as  soft  as  a  peach  when  it 's  mellow ; 

I  care  not  if  it 's  written  in  "  coarse  hand  "  or  "  fine/' 

If  I  see  a  friend's  cognomen — and  it  is  mine. 

I  care  not  if  the  writing  goes  zig-zag  around, 
Like  an  awkward  young  ox  when  he  's  goaded, 


LETTEHS.  171 

I  care  not  if  it  prances  and  flies  o'er  the  ground, 

Like  a  restive  young  colt  when  it 's  loaded  ; 
I  care  not  if  affection  has  blotted  them  there, 
If  its  commas  are  dashes — its  periods  nowhere. 

But  I  care  for  its  meaning — the  face  which  it  wears, 

Whose  expression  I  only  can  render ; 
For  the  heart  which,  unfettered  by  prudery,  dares 

To  write  words  for  my  reading  so  tender ; 
For  the  heart,  unsuspicious  and  truthful,  that  says 
"  I  have  loved — I  do  love — I  will  love  you  always." 

I  care  not  for  beginnings — care  not  for  the  ends, 

If  they  come  to  me  often  and  duly, 
Though  I  think  the  epistles  which  pass  between  friends 
Should  be  closed  with  "  I  'm  yours,"  or  u  yours  truly." 
"  Yours  cordially,"—"  faithfully,"—"  ever  "  will  do, 
But  "  respectfully  "  never,  that  freezes  me  blue. 

It  will  do  for  a  dun,  for  a  lawyer,  a  prude, 

For  the  man  who  by  coldness  would  "  cut "  you  ; 


172  LITTLE  SHELLS. 


But  I  'm  sure  between  friends  it  is  icy  and  rude, 

As  if  saying  "  with  strangers  I  put  you." 
Oh  !  the  letter  that 's  simple,  impulsive,  and  free 
As  a  sun-beam  from  heaven,  is  the  letter  for  me. 


WHAT  DO   WE  STRIVE   FOR? 


WHAT   DO   WE   STRIVE   FOR? 

The  longest  life  must  end  in  death  ; 

What  do  we  strive  for  here  ? 
Fame  also  hath  her  living  breath — 

Her  last  words  and  her  bier ; 
Why  spend  our  little  inch  of  time 

In  longing  to  be  great  j 
Man's  records  are  as  pencilled  rhyme, 

As  figures  on  a  slate. 
Enjoy  the  flowers,  aspiring  fool ! 

That  deck  thy  youthful  way ; 
At  life's  hot  noon  enjoy  the  cool 

Where  shadowy  fountains  play ; 
When  glimmering  sinks  life's  western  sun, 

Crave  not  its  rise  anew ; 
Rejoice  !  for  weary  nights  are  gone, 

And  Heaven's  sweet  morn  in  view. 


174 


LITTLE  SHELLS. 


GREAT   MEN   NEVER   DIE. 

Where  suns  have  set,  a  glory  stays 

That  lingers  long  behind  ; 
So  memory  floods,  with  hallowed  rays, 

The  western  gates  of  mind. 
The  great  man  sleeps,  but  cannot  die  ; 

In  all  his  works  he  breathes ; 
The  billowy  years  roll  proudly  by, 

Crowned  with  his  laurel  wreathes ; 
And  ages,  with  imperial  sweep, 
Still  pass  them  on,  from  deep  to  deep. 


THE  DRAYMAN'S  HOUSE.  175 


THE   DRAYMAN'S   HORSE. 

I  will  tell  you  a  story.     Some  years  ago — 

Fifteen  or  twenty — no  matter  now — 

In  a  far-famed  city — no  matter  where, 

Nor  how  I,  your  servant,  happened  there — 

A  man  was  driving  a  poor  old  grey 

In  a  crazy  cart  on  the  public  way ; 

He  had  trodden  that  pavement  for  many  a  year, 

When  the  skies  were  black — when  the  skies  were  clear ; 

Walking  himself  his  horse  to  spare, 

For  "  Pompey  "  he  loved  with  affection  rare. 

Pompey  was  ancient  and  sadly  worn — 

His  mane  and  tail  had  grown  forlorn ; 

His  back  was  crooked,  and  low  his  head ; 

His  heels  were  heavy  as  lumps  of  lead ; 

He  seemed  to  be  dropsical  in  his  knees ; 

His  breath  came  forth  with  a  pitiful  wheeze ; 

Oh !  he  looked  like  a  spider,  made  up  of  legs, 

Or  a  poor  old  stick,  driven  full  of  pegs. 


376  LITTLE  SHELLS 

But  a  time  is  decreed  for  men  to  die, 
And  if  not  for  horses,  we  wonder  why ; 
Poor  "  Pompey  "  had  lived  his  time,  and  he 
Lay  down  in  his  harness  and  ceased  to  be. 
His  master  jerked  and  jerked  the  rein  ; 

"  Get  up  old  hoss  !  "  he  cried  in  vain. 
There  he  lay,  like  a  log,  in  his  olden  tracks, 
Undisturbed  by  the  wheels  of  the  passing  hacks ; 
While  a  traveler  here,  and  a  traveler  there, 
Turned  aside  from  his  errand  to  stop  and  stare. 
One  only  mourner  beside  him  wept, 
While  there  in  his  harness,  at  rest,  he  slept. 
Said  his  poor,  old  master  in  piteous  tone : 

"  I  'm  a  beggar  now,  for  my  hoss  is  gone  ! 
I  have  no  home,  nor  friends,  nor  kin  ; 
Nobody  will  pity  nor  take  me  in. 
Oh !  how  shall  I  earn  another  cent, 
For  that  poor  old  hovel,  to  pay  the  rent ; 
And  my  dear  old  woman  is  blind  and  deaf; 
Where — where  in  the  world  can  I  find  relief?" 


THE  DRAYMAN'S  HORSE. 

A  murmur  ran  throughout  the  crowd ; 

Some  whispered,  "  I  'm  sorry !  " — some  spoke  aloud  , 
"  Poor  man  ! — alas  !  that  the  beast  should  die  !  " 

(They  needed  but  onions  to  make  them  cry ;) 
"  Poor  man  ! — poor  soul ! — wliat  will  he  do  ?  " 

Was  echoed  by  every  comer  new, 

Till  a  thousand,  or  more,  or  less;  had  said  : 
"  Poor  man  !  I  am  sorry  your  horse  is  dead  ; 

You  had  but  him  and  that  one  old  dray 

To  earn  your  living,  from  day  to  day ; 

There  lies  the  horse,  and  the  cart  moves  not ; 

Oh !  sorrow  and  tears  are  our  earthly  lot." 

Then  I  said  in  my  heart — /  was  younger  then — 
"  Each  will  give  him  a  dollar  to  start  again  ; " 

But  nobody  whispered,  "  I  '11  give  my  part 
>     Towards  buying  a  horse  to  start  that  cart ;  " 

Though  their  faces  were  long  as  rails,  I  ween, 

And  I  wondered — -for  then  I  was  very  "green!" 

11  What  is  the  matter  ? "  a  stranger  cried, 
And,  thither  and  yonder,  he  pushed  them  aside ; 


178  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

"  I  see — I  see — his  horse  is  no  more  ; 
His  coat  is  ragged  ;  he  's  old  and  poor  ; 
Look  up,  my  friend  !  I  am  sorry  for  you  ; 
Just  fifty  dollars — no  thanks — adieu  ? " 
So  saying,  he  left  in  his  hgnd  that  sum. 
The  astonished  crowd  grew  strangely  mum  ; 
In  another  moment  the  ground  was  clear, 
Nor  moist  where  they  stood  with  a  single  tear. 
And  I  said  in  my  heart,  "  Can  this  be  real  ? " 
There  were  many  to  speak,  but  one  to  feel ! 


THEY  WANT    TO  KNOW. 


179 


THEY   WANT   TO    KNOW. 

They  want  to  know  how  old  I  am, 

How  long  I  have  been  married  ; 
If  I  have  journeyed  far  and  wide, 

Or  if  at  home  have  tarried  ; 
They  ask  me  where  I  went  to  school, 

And  just  how  many  quarters — 
If  I  was  trained  with  city  belles, 

Or  'mong  the  farmers'  daughters. 

They  want  to  know  about  my  shawl, 

And  where  I  found  my  bonnet, 
How  many  yards,  and  what  I  paid 

For  all  the  ribbon  on  it. 
They  want  to  know  how  much  I  work, 

And  if  it 's  profitable, 
And  if  I  use  a  silver  fork 

Or  steel  one,  at  the  table. 


i8o  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

They  want  to  know  about  the  man 

Who  wooed  my  eldest  sister, 
They  'd  like  to  know  how  many  times 

He  visited  and  kissed  her ; 
They  want  to  know  who  tied  the  knot, 

A  Methodist  or  Baptist, 
And  which  of  all  that  preacher's  sons 

At  learning  was  the  aptest 


They  want  to  know  how  long  it  was 

Before  a  crib  was  wanted, 
And  if  the  baby  proved  a  girl — 

If  "  Pa  "  was  disappointed. 
They  want  to  know  if  sister  keeps 

A  nurse  and  kettle-washer, 
And  if  a  mastiff  churns  her  cream, 

Or  if  they  use  a  dasher. 


They  want  to  know  a  thousand  things 
I  do  not  mean  to  tell  them, 


THEY  WANT   TO  KNOW. 

About  the  folks  they  '11  never  see, 
And  all  that  e'er  befell  them. 

I  would  I  were  a  bird  or  bat, 
I  'd  fly  away  forever, 

And  hide  me  in  some  quiet  nook 
Where  I  'd  be  questioned  never. 
9 


182  LITTLE  SHELLS. 


HOW  "TOM  JONES"  BECAME  "MR.  JONES"  AND 
"THOMAS  JONES,  ESQ." 

OR,   "I'LL  SIGN  IF   YOU'LL  SIGN." 


A   TEMPERANCE   STORY    IN   VERSE. 


THOMAS  JONES  was  a  printer.     His  youth  promised  fair 
That  his  prime  should  be  honored ;  the  child  of  a  pair, 
Who  were  honest  of  heart  and  had  taught  him  to  go 
In  the  safe  path  of  virtue  while  dwelling  below. 

But  the  Demon  INTEMPERANCE  stood  up  in  his  way, 

With  his  sword  ready  whetted  his  victim  to  slay. 

"  Come !  come ! "  said  he  blandly ;  "  there's  pleasure  with  me ; 

I  am  king  of  the  jovial,  the  happy  and  free. 

Come  drink  of  the  nectar  that  foams  in  my  bowl, 

And  the  cares  of  the  world  shall  sit  light  on  thy  soul ; 

Keen  sorrow  may  sharpen  its  arrows  in  vain, 

And  whatever  thy  lot  thou  wilt  scorn  to  complain ; 


41  TOM  JONE8."  j£ 

The  dark  billows  of  change  shall  roll  o'er  thee  unfelt, 
And  the  storms  of  adversity  powerlessly  pelt 
On  the  head  I  will  arm  with  a  helmet  of  steel, 
For  the  friends  of  my  bosom  no  anguish  can  feel." 
Then  he  paused  for  an  answer. 

x 

Deep  burred  in  thought, 

TOM  reflected  and  doubted,  yet  answered  him  not. 
He  was  thinking  of  lessons  learned  early  in  life, 
Of  his  gray-headed  parents  and  beautiful  wife ; 
Those  parents  who  told  him  there  was  but  one  road 
Led  to  happiness  here,  and  hereafter  to  GOD. 
And  he  thought  of  the  maiden  so  happy  and  gay, 
Who  had  turned  from  her  father  and  mother  away ; 
Who  had  broke  from  her  sisters,  that  artlessly  clung 
To  her  neck,  when  the  parting  words  over  them  rung  ; 
Of  the  brothers  who  failed  their  keen  anguish  to  hide, 
When  they  left  the  last  kiss  on  the  lips  of  "  the  bride." 

Then  a  smile  curled  the  lip  of  the  wily  old  fiend, 
For  he  saw  in  this  doubting  no  doubt  of  the  end. 


1 84  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

Lo  !  the  man  who  doth  doubt  is  already  enslaved — 
So  the  name  of  u  TOM  JONES  "  on  his  roll  he  engraved. 

"  Come  and  try  me,"  he  said,  "  thou  wilt  waste  but  an  hour; 
If  my  promise  prove  false,  thou  wilt  still  have  the  power 
To  return  to  the  dull,  plodding  duties  of  life, 
To  remember  thy  parents  and  cherish  thy  wife  ; " 
And  poor  Thomas  reluctantly  yielded  assent, 
And  was  led,  like  a  blind  man,  wherever  he  went. 

There  was  music  and  laughter,  the  wine  sparkled  bright; 
There  were  savory  viands  on  tablecloths  white, 
And  bewitching  companions  of  fashion  and  pride, 
And  he  turned  from  the  whisper  of  "Home"  at  his  side. 
There  the  night  passed  in  riot,  and  chained  to  the  spot 
There  the  morning  light  found  him,  an  embryo  SOT. 

A  poor  drunkard  he  lived,  till  his  friends  almost  all 
Ceased  to  think  of  him  kindly;  or  mourn  for  his  fall. 
Only  "  MARY"  yet  loved  him — his  parents  were  gone — 
And  his  drunken  companions  dropped  off  one  by  one  ; 


"  TOM  JONES:' 

Only  " MARY"  yet  met  him  with  smiles  when  he  came, 
And  in  accents  of  kindness  repeated  his  name. 
And  as  oft  as  there  glimmered  of  reason  a  ray, 
O'er  the  ruin  RUM  made  him.  he  blessed  her  alway. 


PETER  CLARK  was  a  merchant,  well-known  for  his  wealth, 
For  his  foresight,  and  prudence,  contentment,  and  health 
Gave  a  glow  to  his  cheek ;  tall,  erect  as  a  pine, 
He  drank  nothing  save  water,  tea,  coffee  or  wine ; 
He  drank  wine,  just  enough  to  feel  sprightly  and  well ; 
And  he  scorned  those  weak  mortals  who  tasted  andfelL 
When  old  Alcohol's  victims  reeled  into  his  store, 
He  arose—said,  "  Get  out  sirs  ! — sirs  !  there  is  the  door  !  " 

Now  the  "  cold  water  "  people  at  last  were  awaking 
To  a  sense  of  their  duty — the  Rum-king  was  quaking. 
They  had  spies  on  his  movements,  all  true  and  alert, 
Who  were  bribing  his  soldiers  his  flag  to  desert ; 
And  they  fought  with  his  legions  on  mountain  and  plain, 
In  the  streets  of  the  cities,  and  ships  on  the  main  ; 


X86  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

While  the  cowards  who  dared  not  change  masters  and  fight, 
In  their  hearts  wished  GOD-SPEED  to  the  champions  of  RIGHT. 

PETER  CLARK  in  his  counting  room  lingering  alone, 

Sat  in  silent  reflection — clerks,  customers  gone. 

All  alone,  did  we  say  was  our  merchant  to-night  ? 

No,  for  CONSCIENCE  was  there  in  her  terrible  might, 

"  Thou  !  "   she  said,  "  art   the  tree  that  dost  cumber  the 

ground, 

And  no  fruit  on  thy  branches  forever  is  found ; 
Thou  dost  keep  thy  own  weaknesses  snug  on  the  shelf, 
And  despise  thy  poor  neighbor,  the  pitiful  elf; 
Every  man  is  thy  brother  ;  no  scorn  in  thy  eye 
Should  repulse  the  poor  drunkard  who  passes  thee  by ; 
Thou  shouldst  speak  to  him  kindly,  beseech  him  to  hear 
For  her  sake,  who  yet  loves  him,  her  children  so  dear. 
Promise  speedy  redemption  from  suffering  and  shame, 
And  let  words  and  examples  be  one  and  the  same." 

And  the  still  voice  of  TRUTH  gained  a  mighty  control 
O'er  his  habits  of  thinking — light  came  to  his  soul. 


"  TOM  JONES."  !87 

Then  he  thought  of  TOM  JONES,  and  his  pitiful  plight — 
Whom  so  often  he  'd  bidden  "  begone  from  his  sight " 
To  his  destitute  wife  and  three  famishing  boys, 
To  distract  her  with  curses,  and  scare  them  with  noise. 
And  he  thought  of  the  "pledge"  for  such  people  "  to  sign," 
Which  admits  of  "  no  brandy,  nor  whisky,  nor  wine." 
Even  JONES  might  be  saved,  were  his  name  on  the  list, 
And  he  thought  he  would  ask  him  to  "  sign  " — but,  he  'd 

missed 

Him  some  time  from  his  door — what  the  reason  could  be, 
He  was  quick  to  imagine,  "  some  pitiful  spree." 

Hark  !  a  footstep — a  heavy  and  blundering  tread 
Breaks  the  stillness  of  night ;  and  as  people  have  said 
Of  the  Arch-Rogue  himself — who  is  sure  to  appear 
When  we  're  thinking  about  him — so  THOMAS  is  here ; 
Not  improved,  but  grown  worse  during  absence,  'tis  clear. 

"  Good  e  'en,  Mr.  Merchant.  The  Temperance  folks 
Are  all  after  me  now  with  their  '  pledges '  and  jokes  ; 
They  beset  me  so  hard  to  go  down  where  they  meet, 


1 88  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

That  in  running  away  I  fell  flat  in  the  street. 
But,  thinks  I  to  myself,  1 1  'm  no  turn-coat,  not  I ; 
I  will  drink  what  I  please,  and  whenever  I  Jm  dry. 
I  have  drank  all  my  life,  I  am  hearty  and  hale, 
And  I  won't  tack  about  now  I'm  under  full  sail. 
I'm  a  man,  though  a  drunkard,  and  minus  a  dime, 
I  have  wallowed  in  gutters,  but  never  in  crime.'  " 

"  Nay  !  nay  !  my  good  friend,"  said  the  merchant,  "  I  think 
'T  is  a  terrible  crime  to  indulge  in  strong  drink ; 
And  the  '  Temperance  Pledge '  is  an  excellent  thing, 
The  poor,  wavering  sons  of  temptation  to  bring 
From  the  depths  of  delusion,  to  reason  and  right ; 
And  I  beg  you  will  sign  it — come,  promise  to-night !" 

THOMAS  JONES  straightened  up ;  then  he  stroked  his  red 

nose, 

Tied  his  mud-spattered  kerchief,  looked  down  at  his  toes ; 
Took  his  hat  from  his  head,  and  adjusted  the  crown, 
Which  had  swung  like  a  gate  on  one  hinge,  up  and  down ; 
Shook  his  coat-skirt,  all  tattered,  that  trailed  on  the  floor, 


TOM  JONES." 


189 


With  the  dirt  it  had  gathered  outside  of  the  door ; 
Then,  feeling  his  courage  was  up  to  the  mark, 
He  replied,  looking  sternly  in  earnest  at  CLARK  : 

"  Mr.  CLARK,  you  might  lecture  an  hour  or  a  day ; 
I  should  know  't  was  all  humbug — a  scene  in  a  play ; 
Let  the  wise  man  walk  straight,  and  the  fool  lead  along, 
And  not  shout  as  he  stumbles,  '  hallo  !  there;  you're  wrong ! ' 
I  am  out  of  the  turnpike,  but  you  are  there  too ; 
You  leap  over  the  mud,  while  I  stick  in  the  slough ; 
You  have  wine  at  your  dinners  ;  I  've  whisky,  you  see ; 
You're  too  proud  to  get  drunk,  and  be  caught  in  a  spree  ; 
You  would  dirty  your  wrist-bands,  so  stiff  and  so  fine, 
And  the  crown  of  your  hat  would  flip-flap  just  like  mine; 
You  would  scare  all  the  ladies  ;  the  dogs  would  all  bark, 
And  the  school  boys  would  follow  you  teazing  '  old  Clark.9 
How  I  wish  I  could  preach — but,  you  asked  me  to  sign — 
When  you  write  your  own  cognomen,  scribble  down  mine. 
But,  good  e'en,  Mr.  Merchant,  quite  sober  I  'm  growing, 
I  Ve  one  friend  who  ne'er  chicles  me — to  her  I  am  going." 


9* 


I9o  LITTLE  SHELLS. 


Now  the  sermon  TOM  preached  was  so  pointed  and  true, 

And  presented  in  colors  so  clear  to  his  view 

The  fact,  that  all  lessons  that  aim  at  the  heart 

Should  be  backed  by  example — not  taught  as  an  art ; 

That  he  felt  in  his  bosom  an  arrow  lay  deep, 

And  a  conscience  once  troubled  no  longer  could  sleep. 

"  I  will  sign  if  you  '11  sign  "  was  not  silenced  nor  hushed  ; 
"  If  I  '  sign '  I  may  save  him,  so  blighted  and  crushed." 
It  wailed  in  the  night  wind  that  lifted  his  hair, 
It  creaked  as  he  rocked  to  and  fro  in  his  chair ; 
It  was  written  in  letters  fantastic  and  tall, 
Where  the  candle  light  flickered  all  over  the  wall. 

He  looked  down  at  his  watch — it  was  two  hours  past  nine, 
And  he  started  for  home  ;  but,  "  I  '11  sign  if  you  '11  sign  " 
In  the  voice  of  his  wife,  ever  happy  and  clear, 
In  an  under-tone  startled  him — why  was  it  here  ? 
And  the  little  feet  pattering  like  mice  o'er  the  floor 
Said,  "  I  '11  sign  if  you  '11  sign," — and  repeated  it  o'er. 


"  TOM  JONES."  I, 

He  retired  to  repose  on  a  soft  downy  bed, 
With  a  weight  on  his  heart  like  a  mountain  of  lead. 
And  no  sleep  o'er  his  senses  stole  gently  and  kind, 
But  a  dream  full  of  horrors  affrighted  his  mind. 

He  dreamed  he  was  walking,  afar  from  the  throng, 
Where  a  beautiful  river  rolled  sweetly  along, 
Through  a  flower-skirted  valley  that  nestled  between 
Two  mountains,  whose  summits  were  mantled  in  green ; 
And  the  gray  rocks  hung  o'er  him,  as  vast  and  sublime 
As  eternity's  arch  o'er  the  Ocean  of  Time. 

He  looked  up  with  reverence  to  HIM  who  had  laid 
Their  mighty  foundations,  and  thankfully  prayed 
That  HE  who  had  given  him  a  path  to  pursue — 
Where  grandeur  and  loveliness  gladdened  his  view — 
Would  help  him  to  pity  the  lonely  and  sad, 
Whose  voices  had  ceased  with  their  youth  to  be  glad ; 
Whose  ways  lay  through  morasses,  deserts,  and  dells, 
Where  thorns  grow  profusely,  and  bitter  the  wells  \ 
Where  the  beast  in  his  fury  roams  over  the  plain, 


192  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

And  the  hot,  heavy  sand  falls  like  pattering  rain ; 

Where  hope's  last  ray  of  light  waxes  faint  and  goes  down, 

And  the  wretched  one  doubts,  and  despairs,  and  is  gone. 

^- 

Lo  !  his  path  turned  abruptly — a  cottage  was  there — 
And  a  shriek  from  its  windows  broke  forth  on  the  air. 
'T  was  the  shriek  of  a  woman  in  peril  of  life — 
And  he  sped  to  the  spot — 't  was  the  drunkard's  poor  wife. 
'T  was  the  wife  of  a  demon,  whom  rum  had  made  so, 
And  the  husband,  TOM  JONES — was  he  aiming  the  blow. 
The  children,  half  starved,  were  all  weeping  around, 
And  his  presence  there  only  had  stayecj  the  death  wound. 
O  Heaven  !  what  wretchedness,  hunger  and  dirt ! 
Some  wrapped  in  old  blankets,  some  lacking  a  shirt ; 
Their  feet  were  all  shoeless,  their  hair  stiff  and  long, 
And  feathers  a.nd  straws  in  its  meshes  held  strong ; 
They  stared  at  him  wildly,  then  crouched  down  in  fear, 
For  no  stranger  had  entered  their  door  for  a  year. 
And  their  mother,  whose  spirit  was  crushed  by  despair, 
Had  ceased  to  watch  o'er  them  with  kindness  and  care. 


"  TOM  JONES."  193 


"  Stay — stay  thy  hand,  ruffian  !     What !  murder  her  now, 
With  the  same  hand  that  penciled  this  blight  on  her  brow? 
Remember !  she  trustfully  gave  thee  her  heart 
In  life's  morning  of  gladness,  unsullied  by  art ; 
In  the  pride  of  her  beauty,  surrounded  by  friends, 
Thou  didst  swear  to  protect  her — alas,  how  it  ends !  " 
"  I  will  sign  if  you  '11  sign,"  was  the  ready  reply ; 
"If  you  will  not,  I  '11  drink  till  a  drunkard  I  die." 

He  awoke  with  a  shiver  and  turned  on  his  bed — 
There  was  dew  on  his  temples  and  pain  in  his  head. 
"  Oh !  am  I  the  man  who  is  doing  all  this  ? 
Is  a  hearth-stone  by  me  robbed  of  plenty  and  bliss  ? 
Lo !  the  wretch  I  might  save  from  the  horrors  of  sin 
By  a  word  of  my  mouth,  and  might  easily  win 
From  his  dark,  thorny  path  to  the  brightness  of  mine, 
I  thus  leave  to  destruction,  and  cling  to  my  wine. 
God  of  mercy  forgive  me  ;  I  '11  sign  if  he  '11  sign  !  " 

Our  merchant  was  seated  again  at  his  books, 
Confused  was  his  brain  and  perturbed  were  his  looks ; 


194 


LITTLE  SHELLS. 


He  blotted  his  (i  ledger,"  mis-spelled  and  crossed  out, 
He  wrote  names  so  crooked  they  wheeled  right  about. 
Mischarged  and  wrote,  ''Debtor  to" — "  Sign  if  you'll  sign" 
"  Paid  Mr.  John  Murphy  " — "  No  porter  nor  wine" 
Then  provoked  at  himself  to  be  scared  by  a  dream, 
Though  the  very  idea  brought  back  that  shrill  scream, 
He  arose  from  his  desk  to  gaze  out  on  the  street ;       . 
When  along  comes  TOM  JOXES  with  his  clattering  feet. 

Lo !  his  boot  soles  are  loose  and  the  leather  is  gone, 
Till  the  school-boys  have  counted  his  toes  every  one, 
As  they  chased  him  from  corner  to  corner,  en  masse, 
Crying,  "  Face  about  Captain,  your  sandals  won't  pass  ;  " 
His  old  beaver  is  flapping  its  wing  in  the  wind, 

And  his  neck-kerchief  streams  its  long  pennants  behind ; 

X 
His  coat  has  quite  lost  its  poor  recreant  skirt, 

And  displays  his  suspenders  and  tattered  old  shirt ; 
While  the  cuff  of  one  sleeve  is  entirely  gone, 
And  the  other  is  ready  to  follow  it  soon. 

"  Any  pipes,  Mr.  Clark  ?  I  'in  quite  sober  you  see. 
Will  you  trust  me  ?  all  others  refuse  to  trust  me. 


"  TOM  JONES."  I95 

While  my  money  held  out  they  were  all  very  civil, 
But  they  run  from  me  now,  like  the  saints  from  the  Devil. 
'  There 's  old  Thomas.'  they  say,  'kick  him  out  of  the  store. 
Get  away,  you  old  brute ! '  they  cry,  shutting  the  door." 

"  Take  a  dozen  of  pipes ;  you  are  welcome  to-day 
My  good  friend,  MR.  JONES  ;  glad  to  see  you  this  way. 
Let  us  go  now,  my  brother,  and  write  our  names  down 
On  the  '  Temperance  Pledge' — both  your  name  and  my  own" 

"  Agreed  ! "  replied  Thomas,  "  a  liar  I  'm  not, 
And  no  man  from  this  hour  shall  call  me  '  a  sot.' 
Let  us  keep  it  a  secret.     To-night  I  '11  go  home 
Just  as  straight  as  a  deacon — why  thus  I  have  come 
Will  astonish  my  wife,  and  quite  frighten  my  boys — 
Who  will  miss  all  my  cursing,  and  swearing,  and  noise  ; 
And  my  wife  will  conclude  I  am  out  of  my  head, 
When  she  sees  me  go  sober  and  quiet  to  bed. 
I  will  do  this  a  month,  till  she  thinks  me  quite  mad, 
And  in  view  of  my  'craziness '  seems  very  sad." 


196  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

"  And  when  I  shall  have  earned  all  that  comfort  requires, 
For  food  and  for  clothing,  for  candles  and  fires ; 
When  my  hat  like  a  man^s  on  my  head  shall  be  put, 
And  my  hair  on  my  temples  be  decently  cut ; 
When  the  last  filthy  rag  shall  be  torn  from  my  back, 
And  my  boots  leave  behind  them  a  gentleman's  track  ; 
Then,  then  I  will  tell  to  my  MARY  the  truth, 
And  her  smile  shall  be  glad  as  the  smile  of  her  youth." 

And  away  went  TOM  JONES,  and  the  merchant  went  too ; 

And  the  people  all  laughed  as  the  street  they  went  through. 

Such  a  contrast  to  see  ;  every  window  and  door 

Was  now  crowded  with  heads,  as  it  ne'er  was  before ; 

And  they  giggled,  and  shouted,  and  wondered,  to  see 

"  Such  a  gentleman  going  in  low  company." 

MR.  CLARK  cared  but  little  ;  TOM  cared  not  at  all — 

For  they  often  had  laughed  at  him  when  he  did  fall 

In  some  gutter  by  chance,  when  his  eyes  had  been  dim, 

And  the  boys  had  thrown  stones  and  cried  out,  "  Let  him 

swim." 
So  they  stared  till  they  wearied ;  and  after  all,  when 


;  TOM  JONES.11  I97 


They  had  half  strained  their  eyes  out,  they  only  saw  men. 
And  both  did  "sign  the  pledge"    And,  as  homeward  they 

went, 
They  both  felt  the  last  hour  had  most  wisely  been  spent, 

From  th'at  hour  THOMAS  JONES  never  ceased  from  his  work, 
Though  his  former  companions  around  him  did  lurk ; 
Though  his  appetite  craved  for  its  portion  again, 
With  a  tear  in  his  eye  and  a  weight  on  his  brain, 
He  wrought  steadily  on  from  the  morning  till  night, 
And  was  toiling  anew  at  the  dawning  of  light. 

The  benevolent  marked  him.     The  case,  they  resolved, 

Was  "  a  case  in  which  piety's  self  was  involved." 

They  rejoiced,  and  encouraged  with  kindness  the  heart 

In  the  pathway  of  duty  now  ready  to  start ; 

They  gave  him  employment,  and  cheered  him  with  gold, 

Paying  more  than  he  charged  them — the  half  was  not  told. 

Thus  a  month  rolled  away ;  and  his  wife,  as  he  said, 
Was  astonished  to  see  him  so  early  to  bed. 


198  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

The  little  ones  played  as  he  entered  the  door, 
Never  running  to  hide,  as  they  'd  hidden  before. 
And  his  wife  truly  feared  he  was  crazed  in  his  brain, 
As  he  went  and  returned  ;  went,  and  came  yet  again  ; 
Till  the  very  last  day  of  the  time  set  apart 
To  keep  secret  his  plan  from  the  loved  of  his  heart ; 
Then  with  pockets  well-filled,  with  the  money  to  get 
What  would  bring  back  the  smile  of  his  own  Mary  yet, 
He  set  out  on  his  errand,  with  pleasure  and  pride, 
And  first  called  at  a  tailor's. 

"  The  grog  shop 's  that  side," 

Said  the  tailor,  alarmed  lest  some  people  might  think 
If  he  greeted  him  kindly,  he  too  liked  to  drink. 

"  Have  you  ready-made  clothing,"  he  said,  "  MR.  SHEARS  ?" 
<c  Go  away,  you  vile  drunkard  !  I  '11  cut  off  your  ears." 
"  Will  you  hear  me  ?  "  said  JONES,  looking  right  in  his  face, 
"  If  I  do  n't  get  it  here,  I  '11  try  some  other  place. 
I  have  money  you  see  !  " — and  his  pocket  he  shook ; 
Till  the  tailor  amazed  at  the  jingle  did  look. 


"  TOM  JONES."  I99 

"  I  have  cash  as  you  see ,  will  you  suit  me  or  not  ? " 

"  Oh  !  walk  in  MR.  JOXES,  I  've  the  best  can  be  bought ; 
Here 's  a  vest,  here  a  coat,  here  some  pantaloons  nice ; " 
And  he  said  "  MR.  JOXES  "  seventeen  times  and  twice. 
He  took  every  thing  down,  with  a  bow  and  a  smile, 
Never  wondering  what  people  might  think  all  the  while, 
And  on  tiptoe  he  walked,  and  he  walked  very  tall, 
As  JOXES  tried  them  all  on,  and  then  paid  for  them  all. 
"  You  may  send  these/'  said  Thomas — that  tailor  felt  neat — 
As  he  answered,  "  I  will  sir,  to  Washington  street." 

Next  he  went  to  a  milliner's.     Walking  right  in, 

He  accosted  a  damsel,  tall,  pretty  and  thin. 

"  What 's  the  price  of  this  bonnet  ? "   when  lo  !  how  her 

cheeks 

Turn  the  color  of  ashes,  and  hark  !  how  she  shrieks. 
Then,  recovering  herself,  she  stands  pressing  her  heart, 
As  if  holding  its  fragments,  all  breaking  apart. 
"  Did-you-ask-for-a-bonnet-sir  ? "  gasping  for  breath. 


200  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

"  And  which  one  ? " 

"  The  white  satin  one,  trimmed  with  a  wreath. 
What 's  the  price  of  it  ?  " 

"  Price — sir — excuse  me — three — four, 
Just  four  dollars  it  is  sir — I  think  it 's  no  more." 
"  Well  here  is  the  pay,  miss." 

"  Pray  where  shall  I  send  it  sir  ? 
Excuse  me — I  feared  sir — pray  do  n't  be  offended  sir." 

"  Well,  my  business,"  said  he,  as  he  entered  the  street, 
"  Is  alarming  the  ladies,  and  all  whom  I  meet. 
I  am  dressed  as  Tom  Jones,  and  wherever  I  come 
They  all  think  of  i  delirium  tremens  '  and  '  rum.'  " 

Then  he  went  to  the  shoemaker's,  buying  boots  there, 

And  of  shoes  for  his  family  many  a  pair. 

And  the  shoemaker,  just  like  the  tailor,  received 

Him  quite  coolly  at  first,  till  his  soul  was  relieved, 

Seeing  money  to  pay  for  them  ;  then  he  forgot 

That  "  some  people  might  see  him  chit-chat  with  a  sot." 


"  TOM  JONES."  201 

Then  he  purchased  some  goods  of  his  friend  MR.  CLARK  ; 
Then  he  went  to  a  grocery — this  brings  us  to  "  dark." 
And  the  grocer  repulsed  him  till  cash  was  revealed  ; 
Then  on  tiptoe  he  simpered,  and  balanced  and  wheeled, 
Showing  sugar,  molasses,  rice,  coffee,  and  tea, 
Saying,  "please  call  again  sir,  you'll  know  where  we  be." 

Next  he  went  to  the  meat  shop — he  boldly  stepped  in, 

Though  't  was  long,  very  long,  since  a  meat-block  he  'd  seen. 

There  two  rumsellers  stood,  looking  at  him  aghast, 

As  straight  up  to  the  butcher  before  them  Jie  passed. 

tl  What 's  the  price  of  this  round  ? "  said  he,  touching  some 

beef, 
As  he  thought  of  how  long  he  had  had  none  with  grief. 

"  Beef!  beef!  ?"  said  the  butcher,  his  jaws  set  apart 

Till  one  might  have  gone  down  with  a  pony  and  cart. 

"  Beef!  beef!  ?  "  said  the  rumsellers— "  beef !  did  he  say? 

Why  the  man  is  demented — he  never  can  pay !  " 

"  Yes,  beef!  "  echoed  Jones,  "you  all  heard  me  I  know, 

Yet  you  all  look  amazed,  as  if  I  were  a  show. 


202  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

What 's  the  price  of  this  piece  ? — come,  my  call  must  be 

brief. 

Would  you  put  me  in  chains  when  I  ask  you  for  beef? 
Look  here  !  I  have  money  !  "  and  flinging  right  down 
A  shilling,  a  dollar,  a  guinea,  a  crown, 
Till  he  sprinkled  the  meat-block  with  money  all  o'er. 
"  There  !  there  !  do  you  see  it — or  must  I  show  more  ?  " 
"Beef!   beef!?"  said  the  butcher— "  Oh  !  beef  sir  you'd 

have. 

Sir,  I  misunderstood  you — what  piece  do  you  crave  ; 
And  where  shall  I  send  it,  sir  ?     Thank  you — what  name  ? " 
"  Why  I  have  been  '  TOM  JONES  ' — I  suppose  I  'm  the  same." 
"  Ah — yes  !  MR.  JOXES.     William,  carry  this  meat 
Down  to  Mister  Tom  Jones'*  upon  Washington  street." 
He  was  "  Mister  Jones  "  now.     With  a  glance  full  of  scorn 
Such  as  makes  a  man  "  wish  "  he  "  had  never  been  born," 
He  accosted  the  rumsellers  :     "  Sirs  !  do  you  see, 
I  've  escaped  from  your  mesh  ?     Yes  't  is  really  me. 
Lo  !  the  time  is  at  hand  when  your  'beef  will  be  scarce, 
And  your  pockets  be  moneyless.     This  is  no  farce. 
God  is  heeding  the  cry  of  the  suffering  poor 


"  TOM  JONES."  203 


Who  depend  on  the  wretches  who  reel  from  your  door ! 
May  your  wives  and  your  children  ne'er  suffer  for  bread, 
When  the  price  of  your  wickedness  lies  on  your  head ! 
Now  forever  good-bye  ! — you  Ve  a  customer  lost." 
And  for  shame  they  were  mute  as  the  threshold  he  crossed. 

We  Ve  not  named  all  his  errands,  nor  where  they  were 

done ; 

He  has  traveled  on  briskly  while  lasted  the  sun, 
And  now  twilight  has  found  him  enwrapped  in  her  grey, 
He  is  chatting,  and  bargaining,  and  paying  away. 

He  has  started  for  home  ;  but  before  him,  to-night, 

Let  us  visit  his  cottage — yes,  there  is  its  light ! 

We  '11  like  good  "  Messmerees  "  make  no  noise  by  our  call ; 

'T  is  the  home  of  the  poor,  like  the  homes  of  them  all. 

Here  are  neatness  and  order  through  poverty  seen, 
And  a  something  that  tells  of  the  days  which  have  been ; 
And  poor  MARY,  who  sews  for  the  shops  at  the  stand, 
Hath  a  face  of  rare  beauty — a  delicate  hand. 


204  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

Retrospection  is  busy  ;  how  fixed  is  her  gaze, 

As  she  whispers,  "  I  love  him —  I  Ve  loved  him  always  !  " 

"  Hark !  "  she  starts  in  surprise  ;  "  some  one  knocks  at  the 

door/1 

Here 's  a  man  with  a  cart  and  a  barrel  of  flour. 
"  You  are  wrong  sir,"  she  says,  with  a  tear  in  her  eye, 
"  For  we  can  't  buy  wheat  flour,  the  price  is  so  high." 

"  I  Ve  the  pay  in  my  pocket — I  'm  right,"  said  he  then, 
As  he  rolled  in  the  barrel  and  started  again. 

Knock  again  at  the  door — boy  and  basket  come  in, 
"  Mr.  Jones  sent  me  here  with  these  groceries  for  him." 
Then  he  cast  down  ten  papers  at  least  at  her  feet, 
And  before  she  could  answer,  came  boy  with  the  meat. 
"  You  Ve  mistaken  the  house,  please  to  take  them  away, 
For  my  husband  I  'm  sure  is  not  able  to  pay." 
"  He  has  paid  me  already/'  each  quickly  replied, 
As  he  left  her  to  wonder,  and  hurried  outside. 


"TOM  JONES."  205 

Tap  again  at  the  door — girl  with  bandbox  has  come. 

"  Is  the  lady  of  Squire  Jones,  Madam,  at  home  ?  " 

"  The  lady  ?  "  says  Mary,  and  starts  at  the  sound. 

"  I  am  Mrs.  Tom  Jones." 

"  Ma'am  I  Ve  brought  you  around 

The  new  bonnet  he  bought  of  us  ;  please  madam  try  it — " 

"  Are  you  sure  it  is  paid  for  ?  " 

"  I  am — let  me  tie  it — 

It  is  very  becoming." 

"  Ah  !  yes,  't  is  I  know — 
But  contrasts  very  strangely  with  garments  below — 

Such  a  bonnet  as  this  looks  too  silly  on  me, 

It  was  made  for  some  lady,  and  mine  cannot  be  !" 

(Sweet  Mary  she  sighed,  for  O,  how  could  she  guess 

The  right  arm  of  her  husband  was  bringing  a  dress.) 

But  the  girl  would  not  take  it — 't  was  left  on  her  head, 

And  she  said,  "  If  I  'm  MARY  JONES,  reason  has  fled  ! 

What  a  plight  I  am  in  with  these  bundles  all  here, 

And  that  barrel,  those  boxes,  all  mine  it  is  clear. 

If  by  honesty  earned,  or  benevolence  given, 

They  are  blessings  direct  from  my  '  Father  in  Heaven. ' ' 


206  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

"  You  are  Mary  Jones,  Mother?  said  Pet  NUMBER  ONE, 
As  he  burrowed  in  bundles  ;  "  I  'm  glad  they  are  gone, 
For  I  smell  in  these  papers  both  sugar  and  tea  ; 
We  shall  have  warm  white  bread  of  that  flour,  won't  we  ? " 
"  Oh  yes  !  let 's  have  supper  !  "  said  Pets  Two  and  THREE. 

At  this  moment  Our  Hero,  too  happy  appeared, 
And  the  mist  from  her  mental  sight  readily  cleared. 
"  Dear  Thomas  !  "  "  Dear  Mary  !  " 

Here,  reader,  between 

You  and  them  falls  the  curtain,  for  here  is  a  scene 
Which  our  pen  cannot  paint  you.     So,  bidding  all  hail  ! 
We  shall  leave  with  your  fancy  to  finish  the  tale. 
But  we  pray  you  remember,  and  ponder  one  line, 
Where  the  moral  all  lies  :  "  I  WILL  SIGN  IF  YOU  'LL  SIGN." 


"SPIRIT  .  207 


"  SPIRIT  RAPPINGS,"   AS  EXPERIENCED  BY  AN 
OLD   BACHELOR   POET. 

I  was  writing  a  song  for  the  papers  one  night, 

All  alone  with  my  cat  in  an  attic, 
My  cigar  in  full  blast,  and  my  feet  left  and  right 

In  a  chair,  for  I  'm  old  and  lymphatic  ; 
And  my  hat  on  my  head,  for  my  hair 's  thin  and  white — 

It  was  cold,  and  I  'm  somewhat  rheumatic. 

I  scribbled  right  on  till  my  candle  burned  low, 

Not  a  mortal  around  me  was  stirring, 
Not  a  whisper  was  heard,  but  some  snoring  below, 

And  my  tabby's  own  musical  purring ; 
While  the  wind  through  the  rafters  was  drifting  the  snow 

Which  my  window-pane  gently  was  blurring. 

My  poem  was  finished — I  sanded  it  o'er 

And  leaned  back  with  a  long  inspiration,  f 

of 


2o8  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

Saying,  "weary  old  bachelor,  scribble  no  more, 
Take  your  crust  and  your  evening  libation  ;  " 

When  I  heard  little  '  rappings  '  all  over  the  floor, 
And  I  said  :  '  Is  it  fancy's  creation  ? ' 

Then  I  saw  in  that  attic,  unpleasantly  near, 
A  light  cloud,  like  a  mist,  gathering  slowly  ; 

And  I  said,  u  can  it  be  that  the  '  rappers  '  are  here 
To  disturb  one  so  peaceful  and  lowly  ? " 

While  I  wished  in  my  heart — though  no  mortal  I  fear- 
That  my  life  had  been  somewhat  more  holy. 

And  denser  and  denser  that  shadow  grew  fast, — 
And  a  chilly  sensation  crept  o'er  me — 

Intenser,  intenser,  till  life-like  at  last 
It  stood  up  on  four  feet  right  before  me 

But  a  wee  little  mouse — so  the  danger  was  o'er. 
Though  I  saw  't  was  determined  to  bore  me. 

Master  '  Pussy,'  awaking,  sprang  up  as  he  saw 
What  he  thought  a  good  supper  to  eat  it ; 


"SPIRIT  RAP  PINGS." 


But  his  foot  passed  right  through  it  \  his  velvety  paw 
Clutched  again,  then  he  did  not  repeat  it, 

But  drew  back  quite  ashamed  of  that  impotent  claw, 
For  no  cat's  in  aforetime  had  beat  it. 


Now  that  little  brown  mouse  op'es  its  wee  lips  to  speak, 
Saying:  "  Master  I  crave  your  attention  ! 

I  'm  a  spirit,  unhappy,  that  sympathy  seek ; 
I  entreat  your  profound  condescension  ! " 

Now  it  bows  to  me  thrice,  now  is  passive  and  meek, 
And  I  answer,  "  your  griefs  you  may  mention." 

"  But  if  you  're  a  she  spirit,  get  back  by  the  wall, 

For  I  do  n't  allow  feminines  ever — 
Though  they  hail  from  the  shadow-land — near  me  at  all, 

I  'm  afraid  of  their  mischief  forever. 
If  one  passes  my  threshold  and  gives  me  a  call, 

I  get  o'er  the  effect  of  it,  never. 

"  I  was  once  a  mouse  girl.     I  was  born  in  this  garret, 
My  birthplace  a  package  of  wool ; 


- 
210  LITTLE  SHELLS. 


My  father  and  mother— I  'm  proud  to  declare  it — 

Oft  said  I  was  beautiful ; 
Yet  my  vanity  needed  not  any  should  swear  it, 

For  I  was  not  a  particle  dull. 

"  I  could  see  my  own  ankles,  elastic  and  slender, 

And  my  fur  was  as  soft  as  a  mole's — 
I  knew  my  own  eyes  were  as  brilliant  and  tender 

As  were  any  that  peeped  from  mouse-holes ; 
For  I  saw  my  own  image  ofttimes  in  the  fender, 

When  the  boarder  was  gone  from  his  coals. 

"  I  attended  mouse-school,  where  a  mouse  of  position, 

A  most  dignified  widow  presided ; 
But  I  thought  her  a  fool,  whose  profound  erudition 

Made  her  petulant,  thin  and  flab-sided ; 
And  concluded  no  woman  improved  her  condition 

By  such  lore  as  some  mouse-men  derided. 

"  I  sat  over  the  scraps  from  '  our  boarders '  epistles, 
And  the  bits  from  his  books  she  'd  abstracted, 


"SPIRIT  RAPPINGtf."  211 

With  my  heart  in  the  meadow  of  roses  and  thistles 

Which  my-fancy  had  always  attracted ; 
But,  I  tell  you  I  paid  very  c  dear  for '  my  '  whistles/ 

When  she  caught  my  attention  distracted. 

u  From  a  box  in  this  attic,  I  frequently  toted 

A  few  leaves  of  antiquity's  novels ; 
On  the  hair-breadth  escapes  of  rash  lovers  I  doated, 

'  Seraphina's,'  i  Malvina's  '  and  '  Lovels  ; ' 
Upon  '  underground  passages '  fondly  I  gloated, 

Leading  out  to  perfection  in  hovels. 

"  When  I  grew  up  to  womanhood,  graceful  and  witty, 

I  was  selfish  as  well  as  romantic ; 
All  the  mouse-men  around  called  me  '  artless  as  pretty,' 

'  Not  a  particle  proud  or  pedantic  ; ' 
While  I  played  the  coquette — pray,  sir,  don  't  look  so  gritty 

You  've  worse  humans  both  sides  the  Atlantic. 

"  Among  all  my  lovers,  one  mouse-man  came  nearest 
My  thought  of  a  mouse's  perfection — 


212  LITTLE  S 

He  was  handsome,  a  scholar,  his  head  was  the  clearest, 

His  voice  had  the  sweetest  inflection 
When  he  said,  '  will  you  wed  me,  my  darling,  my  dearest  ? ' 

I  said  '  I  '11  take  time  for  reflection.' 

"  I  '  took  time,'  but  I  never  reflected,  not  I ; 

'T  was  no  part  of  my  programme  to  think,  sir, 
And  I  flirted  right  on,  like  a  gay  butterfly, 

With  the  mouse-men  that  came  at  my  wink,  sir. 
Oh,  I  liked  to  be  flattered  and  told,  with  a  sigh, 

I  was  '  sweet  as  a  blossoming  pink,'  sir. 

"  When  my  lover  grew  restless,  I  called  him  t  capricious,' 
And  he  called  me  a  heartless  coquette,  sir ; 

I  replied — for  to  teaze  him  was  very  delicious — 
4 1  have  twenty  more  fools  in  my  net,  sir. 

Then  he    bade  me  c  good  bye  ; '   said  '  you  're    lovely,  but 

vicious,' 
And  was  gone,  to  my  lasting  regret,  sir. 

66  Ne'ertheless,  t  o'er  spilled  milk  it  is  folly  to  weep,' 
So  I  married  my  wealthiest  lover, 


"SPIRIT  RAP  PINGS."  213 


A  grave  middle  aged  rat,  with  a  beautiful  heap, 

As  't  was  ever  my  lot  to  discover, 
Of  provisions,  and  all  things  which  rat  nabobs  keep 

In  their  store-rooms,  but  prudently  cover. 

"  He  was  called  '  Squire  Rat,'  and  was  highly  respected 
By  all  rat-men  and  mouse-men  around  us  ; 

He  was  kind  to  me  always,  and  no  one  suspected 
'T  was  a  tie  of  convenience  that  bound  us  ; 

But  I  wearied  of  him,  growing  daily  dejected, 
And  the  spirit  of  jealousy  found  us. 

"  Then  the  tattlers  began  in  his  warped  ear  to  tattle, 

Of  a  score  of  '  flirtations  '  now  ended  ; 
And  he  gave  '  curtain  lectures  ' — I  tired  of  their  rattle 

And  the  airs  he  put  on  when  offended. 
So  I  told  him — lo  !  out  of  it  issued  a  battle, 

Which  to  breaking  the  marriage  bond  tended. 

"  He  arose  from  his  breakfast  one  morning,  and  said  : 
(  Mrs.  Rat  I  now  leave  you  forever  ; 


214 


LITTLE  SHELLS, 


I  can 't  bear  any  longer  such  life  as  I  Ve  led, 

And  consider  it  prudent  to  sever. 
Lo  !  the  homestead  is  yours,  and  the  board  and  the  bed 

I  shall  claim  nevermore,  madam,  never ! ' 

"  He  backed  out  of  the  hole,  all  his  prudence  withdrawn, 

When  I  heard  the  quick  jump  of  a  tabby 
Which  had  watched  round  our  premises  evening  and  dawn. 

Oh  !  that  shriek  ! — 't  was  a  murder  most  shabby  ! 
There's  the  rougue  'neath  your  chair,  looking  guiltily  down, 

No  wonder  he  's  careworn  and  flabby." 

"  Tabby  "  ventured  no  sign,  but  crept  closer  to  me, 

As  if  craving  protection  in  trouble. 
"  You  vile  murderer  !  "  she  said  ;  but  no  answer  made  he, 

For  his  conscience  weighed  more  than  a  bubble  ; 
"  It  was  cruel  to  him,  and  a  pity  you  see, 

Since  I  never  again  was  made  double. 

"  Tabby  missed  of  his  feast — a  poor  rat  passing  by — 
He  attempted  to  throttle  and  catch  him  ; 


"SPIBIT  MAPPINGS." 

Now,  I  thought,  is  my  time,  with  my  strength  I  will  try 
That  poor  corpse  !  through  the  door-way  to  fetch  him. 

So  I  stole  him  away  while  that  battle  ran  high. 
O,  ye  stars  !  I  did  pull  him  and  stretch  him  ! 

"  We  had  a  fine  funeral ;  the  service  was  read 
From  the  leaf  of  a  prayer  book,  abstracted 

From  the  stand  of  '  the  boarder/  that  stood  by  his  bed. 
And  I  wept  till  some  thought  me  distracted ; 

Then  away  from  the  grave  I  was  tenderly  led 
By  our  parson,  so  well  I  had  acted. 

"  I  mourned  a  whole  week,  refused  comforts  and  calls — 

Quite  a  pattern  of  widowhood  seeming, 
Sat  alone  all  day  long  in  my  desolate  halls — 

None  imagined  of  what  I  was  dreaming. 
Till  my  shadow  one  morning  crept  over  the  walls, 

As  the  sun  through  the  door-way  was  streaming. 

"  I  tripped  over  the  meadow,  as  fleet  as  a  fawn, 
In  pursuit  of  my  long  absent  lover, 


215 


216  LITTLE  8 HELLS. 

Thinking  now  that  the  Squire  was  certainly  gone, 

I  would  die,  or  my  mouse-man  discover. 
So  I  journeyed  all  day,  and  all  night,  and  at  dawn 

There  he  sat  'neath  a  blossom  of  clover. 

"  i  Your  obedient,'  I  said.     '  Ah  !  my  dear  Mrs.  Rat ; 

Are  you  traveling  for  health  or  for  pleasure  ? ' 
He  replied  most  respectfully,  lifting  his  hat ; 

'  Pray  walk  into  my  house,  if  you  've  leisure.7 
Ah  !  my  poor  weary  heart !  how  it  went  pit-a-pat 

At  the  thought  of  recovering  my  treasure. 

"  But  I  followed  him  in  to  my  grief  and  despair, 
For  he  said,  '  Mrs.  Rat,  Mrs.  Mouse,  ma'am,' 

As  a  lady  arose,  very  stately  and  fair, 

Saying,  'pray  be  at  home  in  our  house,  ma'am.' 

Cataleptic  I  stood,  gazing  long  on  the  pair, 
Then  fell  dead  in  the  arms  of  the  mouse-man. 

"  Looking  back  from  the  land  where  the  mouse-spirits  dwell, 
I  saw  mourning  for  me  among  mice,  sir ; 


"SPIRIT  RAPPINGS."  217 

Mr.  Mouse  wrote  at  once  to  my  friends  how  I  fell, 

Then  he  buried  me  snugly  and  nice,  sir. 
But  he  shed  not  a  tear,  and  I  knew  very  well 

What  had  turned  all  his  love  into  ice,  sir. 

"  Get  you  back  to  the  ghost-land  of  mice,  perjured  bride  ! 

I  am  tired  of  your  feminine  tattle  " 
"  I  won't  go,  Mr.  Bachelor !  "  pertly  she  cried, 

And  I  knew  she  was  seeking  a  battle. 
"  You  have  humans  as  false,  and  as  bitterly  tried, 

Till  the  sands  on  their  coffin  lids  rattle." 

She  tripped  over  the  floor,  coming  close  to  my  seat — 
"  Down  !  avaunt !  get  you  gone  !  "  I  entreated, 

But  she  sprang  to  my  shoulder — slipped  down  to  my  feet, 
And  anon  on  my  hat  crown  was  seated. 

All  my  masculine  wisdom  was  lost  in  defeat — 
Was  e'er  feminine  wisdom  defeated  ? 

How  I  wished  for  a  monk  to  exorcise  her  down 
With  good  Hebrew  and  Latin  instanter ; 


218  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

But  no  monk  was  at  hand,  in  his  surplice  and  gown, 

And  my  courage  decreased  on  a  canter. 
There  was  "  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin"  might  "  do  it  up  brown," 

But  I  'd  lent  it  to  Peter  O'Shanter. 


There  was  "Robinson  Crusoe,"  "A  Dream  Book,"  "A 

Guide 

To  All  Countries  by  Land  and  by  Sea ; 
There  was  "John   Helper's  Crisis,"  "The    Bandit's   Fair 

Bride  "— 

I  read  extracts  from  all  like  a  bee. 
Then  a  work  on  "  Dyspepsia  "  and  "  Magic  "  I  tried, 
But  she  clung  all  the  closer  to  me. 

I  ransacked  that  library,  moist  with  despair, 
And  its  shelves  were  all  heavily  lumbered ; 

Saying  :  "  Is  there  no  volume  so  potent  and  rare, 
Of  the  mass  with  which  these  are  encumbered, 

As  to  banish  this  demon  again  to  her  lair  ? 

If  there 's  none,  my  last  moments  are  numbered." 


"NPI1UT  RAP  PINGS."  219 


Then  I  took  up  those  "  Stanzas  "  last  written,  and  read 

Them  aloud  in  my  wild  desperation  ; 
"  What  is  that  ?  "  says  Tormentor  ;  "  a  poem,"  I  said. 

"  That !  that !  it  is  nonsense  !  vexation  ! 
Stop  !  hush  !  I  can  't  bear  it !  it  murders  my  head  !  " 

I  replied,  "  you  provoked  the  occasion." 

Ere  I  reached  the  last  "  Stanza  "  I  'd  writ  for  the  papers, 
With  a  shriek  she  dissolved,  (without  Latin). 

And  I  thought  if  all  "  rappers  "  that  come  to  cut  capers 
With  old  bachelors,  perching  their  hat  on, 

Could  but  hear  their  "  last  lines,"  in  the  light  of  their  tapers, 
They  would  melt  from  the  beavers  they  sat  on. 


220  LITTLE  SHELLS. 


DOCTOR   GRAY'S   LECTURE   ON  PHRENOLOGY. 

To  a  country  town,  not  far  away, 

When  the  stage  arrived,  came  DOCTOR  GRAY — 

Quite  a  handsome  man  in  a  suit  of  black — 

So  of  course  a  "  doctor  "  and  not  "  a  quack." 

But  no  one  questioned,  and  no  one  cared 

How  "  the  Doctor  "  looked,  nor  how  he  fared, 

Till  the  bills  were  up  at  the  hour  of  THREE, 

Which  "  A  LECTURE  "  announced  "  On  Phrenology." 

At  early  Six  the  world  is  there ; 

The  fire  blazes,  the  candles  flare, 

And  "  DOCTOR  GRAY,"  unabashed  and  free, 

Harangues  the  crowd  on  "  PHRENOLOGY." 

"  There  are  '  heads,'  he  said,  "  of  a  wondrous  size, 

And  such  are  the  <  heads '  which  are  wondrous  wise ; 

There  are  '  heads '  of  the  medium  size  we  know, 

Which  must  move  in  the  common  sphere  below ; 


LECTURE   ON  PHRENOLOGY.  221 

And  some  '  heads  '  there  are,  in  this  world  of  ours, 

Of  diminutive  size  and  contracted  powers. 

As  ( heads '  differ  in  size,  so  they  differ  in  shape, 

And  man  differs  from  man,  as  does  Man  from  the  Ape." 

Then  he  turned  to  the  portraits  of  WEBSTER  and  CLAY, 
And  CALHOUN,  POLK,  and  JACKSOX,  hung  up  in  array. 
"  Mark  the  difference  twixt  those  God  created  to  rule, 
And  the  low  shallow  pate  of  this  cast  of  a  fool." 
Then  the  boys  clapped  their  hands,  and  the  boy-headed  men 
Rang  the  walls  with  their  laughter,  again  and  again. 
"  All  the  fools  are  like  fops,"  he  said,  low  with  a  wink, 
"  Having  self-esteem  larger  than  organs  that  think ; 
And  one  organ  unbalanced,  hangs  backward  you  see, 
Like  a  nest  full  of  wasps  on  the  limb  of  a  tree." 

Then  he  spoke  upon  SEXES  ;  and  straightway  made  out 
That  the  males  dress  in  jackets,  trie  females  without. 
That  the  males  go  to  battles,  elections  and  races, 
And  the  females  tend  babies  at  home,  in  their  places. 
And  along  he  proceeded  through  all  that  he  knew, 
And  much  more  that  he  knew  not,  before  he  got  through. 


222  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

And  the  audience,  grown  weary,  began  to  be  showing 
They  were  sorry  they  came,  and  meant  soon  to  be  going. 
For  he  blundered,  and  wandered  so  far  from  his  text 
That  they  wondered  what  subject  he  'd  stumble  o'er  next ; 
And  remarked,  as  they  viewed  him  'mong  portraits  and 

skulls, 

That  some  lectured  on  brains,  who  were  consummate  gulls. 
But,  before  very  desperate  they  ran  to  their  beds, 
He  proceeded  to  say,  "  We  '11  examine  some  heads." 

Then  the  company  seemed  in  a  little  commotion 
As  they  chose  a  few  "  Heads  "  from  humanity's  ocean  ; 
And  the  persons  selected  went  forth  for  inspection, 
Like  a  bevy  of  rogues  in  the  way  of  detection. 

There  were  twelve  in  the  number — one  preacher,  one  lawyer, 

One  judge,  and  one  poet,  one  common  wood-sawyer, 

One  butcher,  one  fiddler,  one  mathematician, 

One  "  Mrs.  McMurphy  " — not  born  a  patrician — 

A  woman  of  letters,  "  Miss  Deborah  Hearty," 

A  sweet  little  linguist,  "  Miss  Flora  Me  Carty," 

And  my  own  modest  self—  now  excused  from  the  party. 


LECTURE  ON  PHRENOLOGY.  223 


A  moment  of  silence  succeeded  the  hum, 
The  children,  admonished,  sat  perfectly  mum. 
Then,  up-raising  his  eye-brows  and  straining  his  eyes, 
Till  he  looked  like  a  screech-owl — he  talked  in  this  wise. 

"  Here  's  a  man/**  said  he,  touching  the  reverend  brow 
Of  the  pious  old  MINISTER,  "  I  must  put  low, 
On  (  reflection,'  '  perception,'  and  '  morals  '  you  see, 
For  his  forehead  slopes  back  like  the  curve  of  a  D. 
His  '  benevolence  '  and  '  reverence  '  I  find  very  small ; 
I  much  doubt  if  this  gentleman  v.  jrships  at  all. 
But  I  find  his  '  constructiveness '  pretty  good  size, 
And  both  *  color '  and  '  form/  which  are  over  the  eyes. 
He  might  plan  him  a  cottage,  and  build  it,  and  paint  it, 
Though  I  fear  he  with  purple  or  yellow  might  taint  it." 
Then  he  listened  for  laughter — no  laughter  was  there — 
And  he  said,  "  I  am  done  with  him,"  smoothing  his  hair. 
When  his  reverence  remarked,  with  a  smile  on  his  face, 
"  After  forty  years'  preaching,  behold  !  my  disgrace." 

Then  he  turned  to  the  lawyer.     "  This  man  hath  a  brain 
Of  unusual  dimensions — I  hope  he  's  not  vain — 


224  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

And  this  man  I  infer  is  a  man  of  some  wit, 
If  this  man  be  a  lawyer  " — "  He 's  hit  him,  he  's  hit !  " 
Said  the  boys,  while  "  the  doctor/'  not  seeming  to  hear, 
Went  ahead  with  a  spring  like  the  bound  of  a  deer. 

• 

"  I  say,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  though  I  do  n't  know, 

If  a  lawyer,  I  pity  his  litigant  foe  ; 

On  the  <  moral '  and  '  social '  I  find  him  not  large  ; 

May  be  kind  to  a  lady,  if  left  in  his  charge  ; 

He  is  bold  and  satirical,  cautious  and  sly ; 

He  's  an  orator — look  at  that  prominent  eye  ! 

He  is  one  who  looks  out  for  his  client  and  dimes ; 

He  takes  care  of  himself — 'tis  a  trick  of  the  times." 

"  Very  good !  "  said  the  audience — who  did  rft  say  "fudge" 

Then  he  laid  his  white  hand  on  the  brow  of  the  judge. 

"  This  good  man  has  a  £  head,'  which  't  is  plain  to  you  all, 
Is  of  medium  size,  and  an  intellect  small ; 
His  '  perception,'  '  reflection/  and  '  morals '  range  low, 
And  his  '  temperament '  is  '  sanguine  '    and  '  bilious  '   you 
know. 


LECTURE  ON  PHRENOLOGY.  2 

If  a  journeyman  tailor,  or  grocery  clerk, 
I  should  think  he  might  be  very  brisk  at  his  work." 
Then  he  listened  again,  and  a  murmur  was  heard 
From  indignant  observers — "  absurd  ! — how  absurd  !  " 
For  "  the  judge  "  was  considered  the  wisest  of  men — 
They  revered  him  before,  and  they  reverenced  him  then. 
And  the  doctor  discomfited — rather  than  show  it — 
Hurried  on  to  examine  the  head  of — our  Poet. 

"  This  young  man,"  said  he,  looking  him  full  in  the  face, 
Has  an  intellect  large,  as  I  readily  trace." 
And  his  fingers  went  off  at  a  galloping  rate 
O'er  the  hights  and  the  hollows  of  Poetry's  pate. 
"  (  Calculation '  tremendous — '  causality  large,' 
And  a  '  memory '  that  holds  all  he  puts  in  his  charge ; 
Low  on  '  Time '  and  on  ( Tune  ' — he  is  not  a  musician — 
I  should  think  this  young  man  is  a  mathematician ; 
I  will  venture  to  say  that  this  man  may  live  long, 
And  make  many  a  figure,  but  never  a  song." 
There  was  laughter  aloud — he  supposed  at  his  wit — 
But  they  laughed  that  "  the  shoe  was  so  far  from  a  fit." 


226  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

Then  he  passed  to  the  wood-sawyer.     Here  let  us  say 
That  "  Bill  Cutter  "  was  dressed  like  a  beau  in  a  play ; 
And  his  "  head  "  was  a  Webster's,  if  judged  by  its  size, 
And  his  face  was  a  fine  one,  with  shiny  black  eyes ; 
While  the  hands  in  the  kids  told  no  tale  of  the  saw — 
Hence  the  doctor  proceeds  his  conclusions  to  draw. 

"  I  should  think  that  this  man  might  be  known  in  the  town 

As  a  person  of  talent — this  man  is  no  clown. 

He 's  a  writer  perhaps — yes,  a  poet,  I  see  : 

'  Ideality's  large/  and  the  '  marvellous  '  has  he, 

And  of  'Time,'  'Tune,'  and  'Language,'  a  wonderous  degree. 

Yes,  here  is  a  scholar,  who  oft  as  he  chooses, 

Can  write  tales  of  romance,  or  converse  with  the  Muses." 

"  Look  here  Mr.  Doctor  !  "  indignant,  said  Bill, 
"  If  you  call  names  in  Latin,  I  '11  flog  you,  I  will  ! 
I'm  a  sawyer  of  wood,  and  I  earn  my  own  clothes, 
But  take  care  what  you  call  me — or  look  to  your  nose !  " 
And  amid  the  wild  laughter,  provoked  by  his  speech, 
Master  Bill,  homeward  bound,  ran  away  out  of  reach. 


LECTURE  ON  PHRENOLOGY.  227 

Next  in  turn  came  THE  BUTCHER.    He  made  him  out  simple 
As  a  sweet  little  girl  with  a  smile  and  a  dimple ; 
Or  the  sensitive  lady  who  weeps  oe'r  the  "  pullet " 
She  has  ordered  for  dinner,  deploring  the  "  bullet." 

Then  he  tried  the  musician,  and  left  "  him  no  Tune  ;  " 
And  "  no  time  "  and  no  brains,  like  a  pitiful  loon ; 
Though  all  knew  he  had  intellect,  brilliant  and  rare, 
'Neath  that  glossy  profusion  of  chestnut-brown  hair. 

Now  the  MATHEMATICIAN  was  called  to  his  doom — 
And  again  those  sage  fingers  swept  on  like  a  broom. 
"  This  is  one  of  those  persons  we  meet  every  day 
In  life's  commoner  walks  ;  never  born  for  display ; 
With  no  talent  which  precedence  takes  of  the  rest — 
This  man  likes  that  his  dinners  should  be  of  the  best ; 
And  will  pass  through  the  world  like  the  mass  of  mankind, 
Undistinguished  for  anything — medium  mind. 
He  has  musical  genius — good  man,"  said  he  winking, 
"Give  him  plenty  of  money,  he'll  hire  his  thinking." 


228  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

And  with  this  he  dismissed  MR.  CHARLEY  DIVISION, 
And  the  walls  echoed  then  with  the  laugh  of  derision. 
And  he  laughed  with  the  rest,  thinking  wit  and  good  gues- 
sing, 
To  a  lecturer  on  brains,  were  a  help  and  a  blessing. 

Next  was  MRS.  McMuRPHY,  unlettered  and  bold, 
He  pronounced  her  "  a  lady  of  delicate  mould ; " 
Bade  her  "  cultivate  flowers ;  take  care  of  her  health 
Lest  her  mind  should  out-weary  her  body  by  stealth." 
And  her  bluish  white  eyes  gave  a  satisfied  stare 
As  she  yawned,  like  a  clam — then  she  slept  in  her  chair. 

Next  examined — "  Miss  HEARTY,"  an  author  and  belle, 
He  allowed  her  "  scarce  talent "  to  "  cypher  "  and  spell  \ 
Just  enough  to  tend  babies  and  worship  her  spouse, 
And  look  after  the  servants  and  webs  in  her  house. 
"  My  true  character !  "  answered  the  roguish  Miss  HEARTY, 
Then  he  passed  to  the  linguist,  sweet  u  FLORA  MCCARTHY." 

"  Hem  !  ahem  ! !  "  said  the  doctor  ;  "  the  less  that  is  said 
Very  often 's  the  better.     A  nice  little  head. 


LECTURE  ON  PHRENOLOGY.  229 


And  its  owner  a  peaceable  gay  little  girl, 
Who  thinks  less  of  a  book  than  a  feather  or  curl ; 
And  is  oftener  seen  at  a  ball  or  a  play 
Than  at  lectures  on  science — what  more  need  I  say. 
May  I  hope  the  kind  audience  is  satisfied  now  ? " 
And  the  rush  for  the  door  left  no  room  for  his  bow. 
We  scattered  like  pigeons,  and  flew  to  our  nests, 
To  have  nightmare  and  skeleton  skulls  on  our  breasts. 
ii 


230 


LITTLE  SHELLS. 


RETRIBUTION. 

Fast  toiling  up  a  sloping  mound 
On  which  a  mansion  towered, 
A  woman  in  a  muslin  robe 

Before  a  tempest  cowered. 

- 

She  stopped  before  a  massive  door 

Of  neatly  carved  device,. 
And  there  she  knocked,  and  knocked  again, 

And  then  repeated  thrice. 

The  servants  knew  her  sad.  pale  face, 

But  dared  not  bid  her  in, 
Though  pained  to  see  her  look  so  poor ; 

Who  had  their  favorite  been. 

I  will  go  in  !  "  she  said  ;  "he  can 
But  hurl  me  to  the  street ; 


ItETlUBVTION. 

He  can  but  spurn  his  suffering  child, 
And  drive  her  from  his  feet. 

"  O  father !  round  my  darling's  form 

Death  twines  his  chilly  arms ; 
Forgive  him,  that  he  loved  me,  now 
No  life  his  bosom  warms. 

^* 

"  Grant  me  a  trifle  of  thy  wealth 
* 

To  aid  his  funeral  rite, 
And  Heaven  will  increase  thy  store, 
And  bless  thee  for  the  mite. 


"  Oh !  in  that  day  when  all  shall  meet, 

And  at  one  bar  appear, 
Can  Mercy  spread  her  shielding  wing 
O'er  one  that  mocks  her  here  ? " 

And  still  she  wept,  and  still  her  sire 
Looked  on  in  cold  disdain, 


232  LITTLE  SHELLS. 


And  bade  her  "  go !  nor  seek  his  face, 
Nor  shade  his  door  again  ! " 

I  go,"  she  said  \  "  no  daughter's  curse 
Shall  linger  from  my  tongue. 

May  such  a  weight  as  crushes  mine 
Ne'er  on  thy  soul  be  hung ! " 

She  went,  and  asked  of  strangers  then 
Her  starving  children's  bread  j 

And  Christian  strangers  bought  a  shroud 
And  coffin  for  her  dead. 

That  heavy  sand — that  heavy  sand 

Upon  the  coffin  lid  ! 
It  seemed  to  strike  her  bosom,  too, 

And  tear  it  as  it  slid. 

But  duller,  heavier  grew  the  sound 
Of  rattling  earth  and  spade, 


RETRIBUTION.  233 


Till,  beating  down  the  new  brown  grave, 
The  kindly  work  was  stayed. 

Then,  sadly  toward  her  desolate  home 

She  led  those  babes  away, 
As,  sinking  neath  the  western  hills, 

Went  down  the  Orb  of  Day. 


There  was  a  form  that  lingered  yet 
That  breaking  mass  behind  ; 

A  stranger  he,  whose  dress  and  air 
Bespoke  the  man  of  mind. 

*       . 

A  few  white  hairs  his  temples  wore, 

Inwoven  with  the  brown, 
And  sorrow  on  his  cheek  had  traced 
Her  lines  too  plainly  down. 

Yet  kindness  lingered  on  his  lip, 
And  mercy  in  his  eye, 


234 


LITTLE  SHELLS. 

For  Heaven  had  penciled  beauty  there 
In  lines  that  could  not  die. 

Closely  he  followed  now  the  steps 
Of  that  fair  group  of  three, 

Answering  their  first  inquiring  glance 
With  :  "  Mourners,  fear  not  me  ! 

"  I  am  a  helper,  sent  to  ye 

From  every  widow's  GOD  ; 
His  falling  mantle  clings  to  me, 
Who  lies  'neath  yonder  sod. 

"  Come  to  my  heart,  poort  stricken  one  ! 

Child  of  my  early  love  ; 
A  father  I  will  be  to  thee, 
Or  loose  my  crown  above  ! 

"  O  Imogene  !  thy  mother  sleeps 
Beyond  tyrannic  power ; 


BETMIBUTION.  235 

Breathed  she  one  name  unknown  to  thee, 
In  any  thoughtless  hour? 

"  Child  1  did  her  bark  glide  smoothly  on, 

Unrocked  by  sorrow's  tide, 
Until  her  life-sun  calmly  set 
Behind  the  hills  of  pride  ? 

"  Gave  she  to  him  who  held  her  hand 

An  undivided  heart  ? 
Or  did  one  Image  haunt  her  soul, 
Refusing  to  depart  ? 

"  My  daughter !  there  is  no  remorse 

To  feed  thy  sorrow's  bowl ; 
Thou  didst  not  send  thy  lover  forth 
With  arrows  in  his  soul." 

"  Ah  !  mine  is  but  a  selfish  grief !  " 
She  wiped  her  tears  and  said ; 


236  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

"  I  will  devote  my  life  to  thee ; 
With  God  I  leave  my  dead. 

"  There  was  a  name  my  mother  called 
When  struggling  hard  with  Death  ; 
With  that  dear  name  upon  her  lips, 
She  yielded  up  her  breath. 

"  Edwin  ! "  she  said,  "  I  love  thee  yet ! 
God  keep  thee  through  the  world, 

While  tyrants  o'er  the  human  heart 

i 

Shall  to  the  dust  be  hurled." 

They  say  she  raved — her  broken  words 

I  gave  to  memory ; 
And  lo !  this  hour  reveals  to  me 

Their  all  of  mystery. 

Sweet  Imogene  and  her's  no  more 
Were  in  that  valley  seen ; 


RETRIBUTION.  237 

And  winter  came,  and  spring  returned 
With  all  its  bloom  and  green ; 

And  summer  passed  ;  and  years  rolled  on  ; 

Yet  still  her  sire  was  here  ; 
His  goods  increasing  with  his  years, 

And  every  blessing  near. 

His  locks  but  slowly  bleached  to  gray ; 

No  wrinkles  marred  his  cheek ; 
The  fool  forgot  that  God  is  great, 

And  man,  the  creature,  weak.     . 

But  Justice  doth  not  always  sleep, 

Though  sometimes  long  delayed. 
Around  the  Sinner's  hopes,  at  last, 

Flashed  the  avenging  blade. 

A  blight  destroyed  his  waving  fields ; 
His  cattle  strangely  fell ; 


238  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

Men  would  no  longer  work  for  hire, 
Where  lay  a  curse's  spell. 

Alone,  beneath  his  stately  roof, 

He  lived,  an  outcast  now ; 
While  lightning  burned  his  spacious  barns ; 

WTind  laid  his  fences  low. 

The  borrower  returned  him  not 

The  money  he  had  lent ; 
And  bankrupt  houses  failed  to  pay 

The  wonted  yearly  rent. 

No  eye  of  pity  wept  for  him, 

None  marveled  at  his  fate ; 
All  said,  "  the  flaming  sword  of  Wrath 

Swept  over  him  too  late." 

How  could  he  breathe  amid  the  scorn 
Of  those  despised  so  long  ? 


ItETRIBUTION. 

Or  he,  who  ne'er  forgave  a  fault, 
Bow  to  confess  a  wrong. 

The  pride  that  ruled  his  better  days 

Yet  clung  to  his  despair, 
And  sent  him  forth  to  distant  lands— 

None  asked  the  question,  "  where  ?  " 


Upon  a  city's  pavement  lay 
A  shadow  broad  and  tall, 

AVhich  from  a  princely  mansion  fell- 
A  princely  student's  hall. 

A  lady  at  the  window  stood 
To  view  a  passing  show  ; 

When  lo  !  upon  her  marble  steps 
She  saw  a  form  of  woe  ! 

A  beggar !  weary,  worn  and  old, 
With  deeply  sunken  eye ; 


240 


LITTLE  SHELLS. 

And  strangely  did  her  bosom  heave, 
To  hear  his  plaintive  cry. 

Her  every  pulse  was  charity  ; 

Her  feet  obeyed  her  heart ; 
When  to  the  door  she  quickly  sped, 

To  act  the  Christian's  part. 

"  Come  in  !  come  in  !  "  she  sweetly  said, 

"  And  tell  to  me  thy  grief; 
Come,  I  will  bathe  thy  aching  head, 

And  give  thee  sweet  relief. 

"  Come  !  let  me  smooth  those  hoary  locks, 

And  wipe  away  thy  tears  ; 
I  '11  strive  to  make  thy  soul  forget 

The  wrongs  and  ills  of  years. 

"  Say,  are  they  dead  who  loved  thee  long, 
Or  far  estranged  from  thee  ? 


RETRIBUTION. 

Come  in  !  thou  aged  pilgrim,  come 
And  tell  thy  tale  to  me  ! 

"  Come  !  God  hath  given  me  of  wealth 

Abundance,  and  to  spare ; 
Mine  shall  be  thine — stay — all  thy  days 
In  all  my  blessings  share." 

Why  did  his  feet  refuse  to  cross 
The  threshold  of  her  home, 

Though  she  had  taken  his  cold  hand — 
And  still  she  bade  him,  i(  come !  " 

His  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her  form — 
He  quailed  beneath  her  look  ; 

And  every  stiff  and  weary  limb 
With  deep  emotion  shook. 

Well  might  he  shrink  ;  before  him  stood 
The  child  he  spurned  in  pride  ; 

"  Forgive  me,  Imogene  !  "  he  gasped, 
And  on  her  threshold  died. 


241 


242 


LITTLE  SHELLS. 


THE  THREE   BRIDES. 


[The  plot  of  this  poem  was  suggested  by  the  short  prose  story  of  F.  L.  Durivage, 
with  the  same  title.] 


An  old  man  stood  a  grave  beside 

And  leaned  upon  his  spade, 
Another  child  of  dust  and  pride 

Beneath  the  turf  was  laid  ; 
Soft  zephyrs  played  amid  his  hair — 

Upraised  it  from  his  brow, 
Or  left  his  hollow  temples  bare, 

Then  veiled  them  with  the  snow. 

His  eye  was  dark ;  it  told  of  dreams, 
Of  deep  unuttered  thought ; 

It  lighted  up  with  fitful  beams, 
As  from  a  heart  o'er  wrought ; 

It  cast  a  mournful  glance  around, 
It  lingered  on  the  wall, 


THE   THREE  BRIDES. 

It  rested  on  that  new-made  mound 
Crossed  by  his  shadow  tall. 


"  Father,"  I  said,  "  thy  cheeks  are  white, 

Thy  lips  are  thin  and  pale, 
Thy  locks  are  as  the  dews  of  night, 

Or  as  the  glittering  hail ; 
Thy  brow  is  seamed  with  marks  of  care, 

Thy  stately  form  is  bent ; 
Forgive  me,  if  I  ask  thee  where 

And  how  thy  years  were  spent  ?  " 

A  searching  look  he  turned  on  me, 

And  answered  :  "  Grief  is  old  ; 
My  counted  years  are  forty-three, 

When  all  my  years  are  told. 
Boy,  wouldst  thou  see  the  blackened  trace 

Of  God's  avenging  doom  ? 
Come  where  he  hid  his  mercy's  face 

And  sealed  a  soul  to  gloom." 


244  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

Then  turning  from  that  grave  so  new, 

With  quick,  impulsive  tread, 
He  passed  the  arching  gateway  through, 

Whose  walls  enclosed  the  dead. 
I  followed  as  he  rushed  along — 

That  bent  and  white-haired  man — 
As  if  his  limbs  again  were  strong, 

And  youth  returned  again. 

Past  meadow,  marsh,  and  streamlet  clear, 

And  waving  grain  we  sped  ; 
The  village  lessened  in  our  rear, 

The  mountains  rose  ahead  ; 
Yet,  beckoning  still,  he  hurried  on, 

His  lips  in  silence  bound, 
Till,  centered  in  a  velvet  lawn, 

A  silent  home  we  found. 


He  pointed  to  its  towering  walls 
Against  the  cloudless  sky, 


THE    THREE  BRIDES. 

And  said,  "  no  sound  disturbs  its  halls 

Besides  the  cricket's  cry." 
The  wind  its  shrunken  shutters  flapped, 

The  doors  were  loose  and  wide, 
The  shingles  on  the  rafters  tapped, 

And  moss  o'erspread  its  side. 

"  Come  in,"  he  said,  and  through  my  blood 

A  chill  sensation  crept, 
When  on  its  floor  the  old  man  stood, 

And  I  beside  him  stept. 
For  oh  !  the  scene  that  met  my  gaze 

Was  fearful,  sad,  and  strange  ; 
It  told  a  tale  of  other  days, 

Some  dark,  mysterious  change. 

Rich  drapery,  from  the  ceiling  hung, 

Had  faded  all  to  gray  ; 
A  harp,  neglected  and  unstrung, 

Dust-wrapped  and  voiceless  lay ; 


245 


246  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

The  woolen  fabric  'neath  our  feet 
The  moth  had  half  consumed  ; 

Across  the  damask  table-sheet 
The  spider's  web  was  loomed. 


And  many  a  noble  volume  there 

The  mouse  had  made  her  jest, 
And  works  of  art,  the 'rich  and  rare, 

The  mould  of  time  had  dressed  ; 
The  damp  had  silver  vessels  dimmed, 

The  brass  were  black  with  rust, 
The  lamps  burned  out,  and  ne'er  retrimmed, 

Were  pyramids  of  dust. 

"  Why  is  it  thus,  my  guide  ?  "  I  said, 

"  Here  desolation  reigns ; 
Can'st  thou  remove  this  mystic  dread 

That  creeps  throughout  my  veins  ? 
Tell  now  to  me  the  gloomy  tale 

Of  this  abandoned  home, 


THE    THREE  BRIDES.  247 


Before  the  setting  sun-beams  pale 
On  yonder  temple's  dome.'7 

"  Sit  clown,"  he  said,  "  sit  down,  I  pray 

I  fain  would  tell  thee  all ; 
Here  glide  no  ghosts,  as  cowards  say, 

When  night's  deep  shadows  fall. 
I  would  we  heard  one  gentle  sigh, 

One  low,  familiar  tone, 
Or  felt  the  unseen  passer-by, 

Loved  and  forever  gone. 

"  I  would  there  were  white  wings  around, 

Which  only  I  could  see, 
That  voices  of  unearthly  sound 

Would  sing  for  only  me. 
But  now  I  turn  for  thee  the  leaf 

Which  ne'er  was  turned  for  man — 
Forgive  this  timeless  burst  of  grief." 

And  lo  !  the  tale  be^an. 


248  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

"Tired  of  the  world,  its  empty  joys, 

Its  fashions  and  its  cares, 
A  student  left  its  glare  and  noise, 

Unfettered  by  its  snares. 
He  reared  these  walls,  content  to  hide 

In  nature's  shades  to  rest, 
With  one  fair  child,  his  hope  and  pride, 

A  frail,  dependent  guest. 

"  Here,  to  his  home  he  luxuries  brought 

For  this  his  only  son  ; 
Though  for  himself  nor  craved  nor  sought- 

They  pleased  his  precious  one, 
Who  wore  his  sainted  mother's  smile, 

And  shook  her  clustering  hair  ; 
Sighing,  he  smoothed  his  locks  the  while, 

And  blessed  her  image  there. 

"  *  Thou  art  my  only  tie  to  life/ 
He  kissed  him  oft,  and  said, 


THE   THREE  BKIDE8. 

'  Dear  semblance  of  my  gentle  wife, 

My  beautiful,  my  dead  ! 
For  her  sweet  sake  I  cling  to  thee, 

Cling  thou  to  her  above  ; 
Ne'er  let  that  angel  mother  see 

Her  child  beneath  her  love.' 

tc  On  swept  the  years  ;  that  gentle  boy 

To  manhood  swiftly  grew  ; 
His  hopes  were  shared,  his  every  joy 

That  faithful  father  knew. 
The  varied  works  of  ancient  lore 

He  to  the  child  made  plain, 
O'er  all  the  heights  he'd  climbed  before 

He  led  his  charge  again. 

"  Death  claimed  his  own  ;  the  good  man  died  : 

The  son  could  only  weep, 
And  lay  him  by  his  mother's  side, 
To  share  her  peaceful  sleep. 


250 


LITTLE  SHELLS. 

But  oh  !  the  aching  loneliness 

That  o'er  his  spirit  stole, 
When  none  was  left  with  love  to  bless 

His  young  and  yearning  soul. 

"  Yet  grief  its  first  keen  edge  must  lose— 

We  cannot  always  mourn — 
The  rod  foregoes  its  power  to  bruise, 

When  long  its  stripes  we  Ve  borne. 
Ambition  called,  he  sought  a  name — 

To  write  a  name  unknown 
Upon  the  highest  towers  of  fame, 

And  grave  it  on  her  throne. 

"  He  wooed  the  muses ;  for  the  fire 

Of  poesy  he  felt, 
And  seldom  with  the  mystic  lyre 

Such  harmony  had  dwelt. 
In  far-off  lands  his  name  was  heard — 

There  many  a  household  band, 


THE   THREE  BRIDES. 

Aroused  to  deeds  of  love  deferred, 
Blessed  his  inspiring  hand. 

"  Men  said,  '  Behold  !  the  youthful  sage 

Is  prince  of  modern  bards ; 
He  pens  for  us  the  fairest  page 

The  present  age  records  ! ' 
The  smiling  lip,  the  laughing  eye, 

Of  beauty  seemed  to  say 
She  must  be  blessed,  who  by-and-by 

Shall  steal  his  heart  away. 

"  Where  yon  tall  cedar  proudly  towers 

Against  the  arching  blue, 
Three  sisters  spent  those  guileless  hours 

When  life  and  love  were  new ; 
All  graceful  as  the  angel  forms 

That  come  to  us  at  night, 
And  hold  us  in  their  peaceful  arms 

Till  breaks  the  morning  light. 


252 


LITTLE  SHELLS. 

"  Helena  was  the  youngest  child, 

The  rose-bud  of  the  three  ; 
Her  statelier  sisters  paused  and  smiled 

To  hear  her  bursts  of  glee — 
As  bounding  like  the  sportive  fawn 

She  crossed  the  native  heath, 
Or  wove  for  each  a  flowery  crown, 

Their  loftier  brows  to  wreath. 


"  Her  heart  the  poet  won,  she  gave 

To  him  her  priceless  hand  ; 
*  My  own  ! '  he  said,  '  to  shield  and  save 

From  error's  rock-browed  strand/ 
'  My  own  ! '  how  wildly  leaps  the  heart 

When  first  we  say  l  my  own  ' — 
With  quivering  lips  and  tears  astart — 

'  My  own — my  blessed  one  ! ' 

"  Imploring  Heaven  the  bond  to  bless, 
The  father  gave  the  bride  j 


THE    TREEE  BRIDES.  253 

The  mother  gave  the  parting  kiss 

With  less  of  grief  than  pride  ; 
The  sisters  then  their  darling  clasped, 

With  blessings  on  her  head, 
And  all  was  o'er — the  pageant  passed — 

Away  the  bride  was  led. 


"  Helena !  how  the  flowers  up  sprung, 

And  choked  the  weeds  of  care ; 
The  poet,  listening  to  thy  song, 

Forgot  his  harp  was  there  ; 
The  garden  gathered  new  perfume 

Beneath  thy  fostering  smile  ; 
From  path  to  path,  from  bloom  to  bloom, 

Enchantment  reigned  the  while. 

"  But  joy  possessed  is  half  decayed  ; 

We  grasp  it — it  is  gone  ! 
Death,  with  his  ruthless  sickle,  laid 

That  flower  of  virtue  down. 
12 


254  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

He  loosed  her  from  reluctant  arms, 
That  sweet  confiding  vine, 

Content  to  wreath  her  artless  charms 
Around  his  household  shrine. 


"  Yet  time  assuaged  his  bitter  grief —     f 

The  heart  is  prone  to  change  ; 
To  make  my  truthful  story  brief — 

Though  seeming  wondrous  strange — 
He  sought  the  second  sister's  heart, 

He  claimed  a  second  bride ; 
Death,  envious,  sent  another  dart, 

And  swept  her  from  his  side. 

"  Edwina  !  she  was  pale  and  meek, 

Pure  as  an  angel's  sigh, 
White  lilies  rested  on  her  cheek, 

And  kindness  in  her  eye. 
She  listened  to  the  lightest  call 
From  pleading  misery  ; 


THE   THREE  BRIDES.  255 


From  wealth  to  want,  beloved  of  all, 
All  mourned  her  destiny. 

"  Why  go  our  whitest  lambs  so  soon 

From  out  affection's  fold, 
While  spotted  Vice  enjoys  her  June, 

Her  Autumn,  and  grows  old  ? 
But  time  again  brings  healing  balm — 

A  slow,  imperfect  cure — 
The  stricken  man  is  peaceful,  calm, 

And  stronger  to  endure. 

"  Lo  !  queenly  Caroline  is  there, 

The  eldest  sister  lives  ; 
Tall,  graceful,  and  supremely  fair, 

She  wins  him  as  she  grieves. 
He  drinks  her  eyes'  bewitching  light, 

And  mind  replies  to  mind, 
She  claims  him  with  imperial  right, 

To  captivate  and  bind. 


256  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

61  With  brilliant  lamps  the  chapel  gleamed, 

Its  pillars  wreathed  with  green, 
The  lustre  all  around  her  streamed 

Who  stood  a  bridal  queen. 
White  roses  twined  the  locks  among, 

Which  waved  around  her  brow, 
And  o'er  her  matchless  shoulders  hung, 

Contrasting  with  their  snow. 


"  The  organ  pealed  with  solemn  sound 

A  prayer — a  reverent  pause — 
The  bride  was  given — then  all  around 

Was  low,  suppressed  applause. 
The  bridegroom  spoke  the  vows  with  pride 

He  purposed  to  fulfill ; 
Then  sweetly  said  that  lovely  bride, 

In  low  response,  '  I  will.' 

"  But  scarce  from  off  her  lips  the  sound 
Had  calmly  died  away, 


THE    THREE  BRIDES.  257 


When  terror  seized  the  circle  round, 
And  trembling  and  dismay. 

There  came  a  flash,  a  bright  red  flash, 
A  loud,  unearthly  wail, 

The  pillars  shook  amidst  the  crash 
Of  thunder,  wind  and  hail. 


"  The  fair  ones  shrieked  ;  the  bride  alone 

Was  equal  to  the  hour, 
She  made  response  in  louder  tone, 

Nor  feared  that  tempest's  power. 
No  quiver  of  her  lip  betrayed 

One  shrinking  pang  within — 
He  thought  her  calm  and  undismayed 

Because  so  free  from  sin. 


"  The  rite  was  o'er — the  moonbeams  fell 

On  glittering  bower  and  bush  ; 
The  guests  dispersed,  the  tale  to  tell 
Amid  the  household  hush. 


258  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

Again  the  bridegroom  to  these  walls 
A  worshiped  mistress  led  ; 

Yea,  brought  her  to  these  fretted  halls, 
Now  sacred  to  the  dead. 


"  But  lo  !  a  second  cloud  doth  rise  ; 
It  shrouds  the  moon  and  stars  ; 
The  lightning  o'er  its  surface  flies — 

The  earth  with  thunder  jars. 
*  Hide  thee,'  he  cries,  '  my  love,  my  bride  ! 

Within  our  sheltering  home  ; 
Hide  thee  !  its  portals  open  wide — 
Hide  from  the  outward  gloom/ 

"  They  yet  upon  the  threshold  stood  ; 

'  Go  in ! '  he  cried  in  vain  ; 
The  hail,  the  thunder,  and  the  flood 

Swept  over  hill  and  plain  ; 
A  flash  of  fiercer,  redder  dye 

Lit  up  the  darkened  air, 


THE   THREE  BRIDES, 

It  lingered  in  her  large,  full  eye, 
And  burned  amid  her  hair, 

"  '  I  may  not  cross  thy  threshold  now/ 

In  husky  whispers  came  ; 
'  Thou  seest  upon  my  burning  brow 

God's  own  avenging  flame. 
My  tongue  is  parched,  my  eyes  are  dim, 

My  veins  are  all  aglow  ; 
And  lo  !  I  pass  away  to  Him, 
Consuming  as  I  go. 

"  4  'T  was  I  that  drugged  with  poison  deep 

Each  trusting  sister's  bowl  ; 
Then  mourned  with  thee  her  timeless  sleep — 

Lost  and  degraded  soul ! 
But  oh  !  't  was  love — 't  was  love  for  thee, 

Concealed  within  my  breast — 
That  nerved  my  arm  for  infamy — 

A  demon  of  unrest. 


259 


26o  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

"  '  'T  was  love,  the  unreturned  and  true, 

That  drove  me  to  despair, 
And  maddened — lost — a  fiend  !  I  slew 

The  lambs  that  claimed  my  care. 
Helena  !  with  what  earnest  love 

My  bending  neck  she  clasped  ! 
Edwina  I  pure,  confiding  dove, 

Dying,  my  fingers  grasped.' 

"  He. could  not  curse,  he  dared  not  bless 

His  lost  and  guilty  bride, 
There,  shorn  of  all  her  loveliness, 

Still  clinging  to  his  side. 
He  gently  loosed  her  pleading  hands, 

And  whispered  :  God  is  just ; 
But  Jesus  feels  and  understands 

The  sorrows  born  of  dust. 

"  A  costly  tomb  received  her  form, 
And  wandering  Rumor  said, 


THE   THREE  BRIDES.  26i 

She  perished  in  the  fearful  storm 

That  beat  upon  her  head. 
They  said  she  perished  like  a  flower 

Crushed  by  the  water's  weight — 
Soared  Heaven  ward  'mid  that  fearful  shower, 

And  left  a  cheerless  mate. 

"  He  turned  away — yet  naught  revealed — 

To  hope  and  smile  no  more ; 
With  forehead  bowed  and  bosom  sealed 

His  lonely  lot  he  bore. 
What  now  to  him  was  wealth,  or  fame, 

Or  love's  delusive  dreams  ? 
He  sought  not  power,  he  feared  not  shame, 

But  sighed  for  Lethean  streams. 

a  Forgetfulness  !  in  vain  thy  wave 
He  prayed  to  haste  and  come, 
While  onward  to  the  peaceful  grave 
He  bore  the  weight  of  gloom. 


262  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

Vile  slander,  with  her  scorpion  tongue, 

At  last  his  name  defiled, 
But  all  too  late  her  darts  were  flung 

At  sorrow's  wasting  child. 

"  His  home,  enwrapped  in  dust  and  mould, 

Is  yielding  to  decay  ; 
Yet  here  till  life's  last  hours  are  told 

He  will  return  to  pray. 
What  wonder  if  his  spirit  clings 

To  haunts  where  grief  doth  sleep, 
And  here  the  friendly  dust  he  flings 

O'er  hearts  no  more  to  weep." 

"  And  thou  art  he  indeed,  my  guide — 
Whom  fate  so  strangely  led — 

The  poet,  and  the  man  of  pride, 
On  early  flattery  fed  ; 

The  husband  of  the  fated  three — 
Each  loved  and  gifted  wife — 


THE   THREE  BltWES. 

Oh  !  vain  is  weak  philosophy 
To  stem  the  ills  of  life." 

"  Away  !  away !  I  Ve  told  thee  all — 

Nor  stay  to  see  my  tears — 
For  thee  I  've  let  the  curtain  fall 

Which  hid  the  woes  of  years." 
I  left  him  there,  again  to  tell 

His  woes  to  Sorrow's  Friend ; 
And  thought,  Life's  Drama,  opening  well, 

Oft  brings  a  Tragic  end. 


263 


264  LITTLE  SHELLS. 


THE  BATTLE  FIELD. 

Rest,  soldiers,  rest !     The  earth  is  damp 
With  many  a  comrade's  blood, 

Who  faltered  'mid  the  battle's  tramp, 
And  perished  while  ye  stood  ; 

But  fainting  nature  pleads  for  sleep  ; 

No  time  is  yours  to  search,  or  weep 
For  lost  ones  on  the  road. 


Rest,  soldiers,  rest !     May  angels  guard 

Your  slumbers  as  before  ; 
Bring  home's  green  vines  by  south-winds  stirred, 

And  rose-trees  from  the  door. 
The  gentle  mother's  low  "  good  night " — 
Sweet  wife  and  children  treading  light — 

The  homestead's  hallowed  floor. 


THE  BATTLE  FIELD. 


The  weary  slept ;  the  wounded  turned 

To  sunlight's  fading  glow  ; 
Oh,  how  for  morn  their  bosoms  yearned, 

But  pitying  angels  know ; 
As  restless,  chilled  and  suffering, 
They  heard  some  far-off  footstep  ring, 

Or  dismal  water  flow. 

That  night,  O  God  !  how  long  it  seemed, 

The  moon  how  slow  to  set ; 
The  stars,  all  frozen  where  they  beamed, 

At  rising,  lingering  yet ; 
One  dead,  dead  sea  of  cold  grey  light, 
No  wavelet  rippling  o'er  its  white, 

Their  aching  vision  met. 

'T  is  morning  on  the  battle  field  ; 

Chaunt  low,  ye  lips  of  song ! 
Tread  softly  where  the  trumpet  pealed 

Defiance  to  the  strong  ; 
Nor  question  now  these  warriors  bold, 


266  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

With  death's  firm  seal  on  lips  so  cold, 
If  war  be  right  or  wrong  ? 

A  war  horse,  proud  and  sleek  as  glass, 

Obedient  to  the  rein, 
He  softly  climbed  the  mountain  pass, 

Or  dashed  along  the  plain  ; 
He  knew  his  master's  kindly  eye, 
And  rocked  him  like  a  lullaby, 

Or  whirled  him  on  amain. 

But  lo  !  upon  the  morning's  breath 
His  nostrils  gap  and  close  ; 

He  struggles  with  the  monster  death, 
In  faint,  expiring  throes. 

A  head  is  pillowed  on  his  side — 

Two  fresh  warm  streams  together  glide- 
And  on  the  crimson  flows. 

"  Our  Charlie  "  on  this  knoll  of  moss  ! — 
Sweet  face  and  locks  of  brown — 


THE  BATTLE  FIELD. 

One  broad  red  line  this  brow  across, 

The  rest  as  soft  as  down ; 
A  little  hand  is  tightly  pressed 
Where  throbbed  a  heart — a  childish  chest — 

And  all  as  cold  as  stone. 

Our  farmer  friend — with  eyes  of  jet, 

Full  face  and  raven  locks — 
We  saw  him  clasp  his  "  dear  Jeanette  !  " 

And  lingering  view  his  flocks ; 
Ah  !  all  but  love  in  death  was  weak — 
Tears  cut  the  dust  on  either  cheek 

Now  bleaching  on  the  rocks. 

A  slender  frame — a  thin  sad  face — 

Yet  blood  nor  scar  is  here  ; 
The  sick  man  goaded  in  his  place 

By  "  coward  "  uttered  near, 
Whose  feverish  pulse  and  aching  head 
For  many  a  weary  week  had  plead 

For  home,  but  none  would  hear. 


267 


268  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

And  lo  f  he  fired  a  few  poor  rounds, 

With  feeble  hands  astrain  ; 
Then  heard  no  more  the  babel  sounds 

That  rocked  the  battle  plain. 
"  Home,  home  "  he  whispered,  "  send  me  home  "- 
"  Come  home  !  "  God's  angel  answered,  "  come 
Where  none  shall  mock  thy  pain." 

Our  village  pet — the  drummer  lad — 

Who,  with  a  joyous  spring, 
Went  out  to  "  see  the  troops  parade," 

And  joined  the  martial  ring. 
Men  won  him — MEX  !  unfeeling  souls — 
By  flattery,  to  their  muster  rolls — 
And  here  he  lies — poor  thing ! 

The  Irish  lad — good  news  that  hailed 

From  far  Columbia's  shore — 
His  mother  blessed  him,  as  he  sailed 

The  deep  blue  ocean  o'er. 
His  neck  yet  wears  the  tiny  cross 


THE  BATTLE  FIELD.  269 

Upon  a  faded  cord  of  floss 
His  little  sister  wore. 

"  A  little  while  !  a  little  while  !  " 

Their  grieving  lips  repeat, 
As  o'er  the  homestead's  crumbling  stile 

He  clambers  to  the  street — 
"  A  little  while  !  my  mother  dear, 
I  '11  send  for  ye  another  year — " 
Where  will  that  trio  meet  ? 

Who  slumbers  here  ?  the  man  that  years 

Embrowed  in  glory's  wreath — 
Amid  his  country's  deafening  cheers 

He  was  enrolled  by  death. 
But  lo  !  the  white  lamb  of  his  flock 
Hath  met  with  him  the  fatal  shock — 

Oh  !  speak  in  underbreath  ! 

A  very  child,  whose  lips  and  brow 
But  "  mother's  "  kiss  had  known, 


270  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

As  pulseless  as  a  drift  of  snow, 

Beside  the  stalwart  one  ; 
The  cedar  of  the  household  shrine 
Beside  the  bud — the  fragile  vine 
Left  storm-tossed — all  alone  ! 


The  sun  is  high.     This  red,  red  sea 

By  living  waves  is  stirred  ; 
They  come  from  every  mount  and  lea — 

The  sick  of  hope  deferred ; 
"  My  father  !  "  "  O,  my  child  !  my  child  !" 
"  My  brother!  "  rings  in  anguish  wild 
Where  comes  no  answering  word. 

"  My  husband,"  comes  in  wailing  tones 

From  one  whose  years  are  few ; 
"  My  only  son  !  "  a  mother  moans, 
"  I  know  these  eyes  of  blue  !  " 
A  father  bowed  with  age  and  woe, 
Up-lifts  a  forehead  cold  as  snow, 
And  wipes  away  its  dew. 


THE  BATTLE  FIELD. 

God  help  ye !  one — and  help  ye  all 
When  hope's  last  spark  dies  out, 

And,  homeward  bound,  your  footsteps  fall 
Along  the  dismal  route  ; 

Or,  bearing  hence  your  precious  freight, 

Ye  ope  again  the  homestead  gate, 
And  hang  your  weeds  about. 


Names  too  obscure  for  history, 
No  marts  contend  your  birth, 

No  statue  rises  where  ye  lie 
To  point  the  world  your  worth. 

Mute  fibres  in  the  arm  of  might, 

Unknown  ye  blent  in  desperate  fight, 
Unknown  returned  to  earth. 


But,  rulers  in  imperial  halls 
That  wield  a  nation's  rod, 
"  The  private  "  answered  to  your  calls, 
Obedient  unto  blood  ; 


271 


274  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

A  youth  is  rejoicing  in  manhood's  light, 

And  the  strength  of  a  sinewy  frame  ; 
The  goal  of  his  hopes  is  afar  and  bright, 

And  he  sighs  for  an  honored  name. 
He  patiently  bends  through  the  midnight  hours 

Over  pages  of  musty  lore  ; 
Not  a  cloud,  as  he   sees,  in  his  future  lowers, 

All  is  rosy  and  bright  before. 


A  husband  is  leading  a  beautiful  bride 

To  the  home  of  his  early  years, 
And  a  matron  woman,  with  joy  and  pride, 

There  blesses  them  both  with  tears. 
But  a  little  time,  and  that  mother  sleeps. 

In  the  church-yard,  cold  and  low, 
Where  the  summer  smiles  and  the  autumn  weeps, 

All  unknown  in  the  city  below. 

Fair  children  have  come  to  his  yearning  breast, 
And  his  cup  of  joy  is  full ; 


LIFE'S  CHANGES.  275 

And  he  seeks  to  provide  for  his  household  nest, 

With  a  love  that  is  beautiful ! 
But  close  to  the  grave  where  his  mother  lies, 

Is  another  green  grave  made  ; 
Another  has  closed  her  earthly  eyes 

To  awake  in  the  realms  of  shade. 


The  laurels  upon  his  brow  are  green, 

But  he  feels  their  tremor  with  pain  ; 
The  loved  of  his  youth  has  said  "  good  e'en," 

And  her  morning  comes  never  again. 
His  children  are  roaming  o'er  land  and  sea, 

And  have  loves  and  homes  afar ; 
To  the  mammon  of  Gold  they  have  bowed  the  knee, 

Or  are  led  by  Ambition's  star. 


The  old  man  sits  at  his  desolate  hearth, 
Whence  the  fire  is  almost  gone — 

Not  a  cheerful  song,  nor  a  tone  of  mirth 
Is  heard  by  the  lonely  one. 


276  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

The  night  wind  sweeps  through  the  shivered  pines, 
And  moans  through  the  driving  rain, 

And  whistles  a  tune  in  the  skeleton  vines 
Of  the  time-worn  window-pane. 

He  bends  o'er  his  shadowy  hearth,  and  grieves, 

And  wipes  the  cold  sweat  from  his  brow — 
Hark !  pattering  feet  'neath  the  dripping  eaves, 

And  his  wife's  sweet  voice  so  low ! 
His  absent  children  and  buried  wife 

Come  gliding  in  at  the  door — 
The  sea  of  death  drinks  the  bubble  Life 

And  he  wakes  on  the  unknown  shore. 


277 


WYOMING. 

Morning  was  rosy,  beautiful  and  bright, 
Mantling  the  hill-tops  with  a  crown  of  light, 

Gilding  the  streams  ; 

Fast  curling  upward  rolled  the  smoke  away, 
Light-hearted  children  waked,  to  shout  and  play, 

From  pleasant  dreams. 

Lay  God's  own  Volume  open  on  the  stand ; 
Turning  its  pages  with  a  reverent  hand 

Sat  the  priest-sire  ; 

Welled  the  prayer  upward  from  their  hearts  to  heaven, 
To  the  Great  Father  for  the  rest  he'd  given, 

For  food  and  lire. 

Hot  lay  the  sun-beams  on  Wyoming's  hills  ; 
Sparkled  the  bubbles  on  the  ckar,  bright  rills 

Over  the  river. 
13 


276  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

The  night  wind  sweeps  through  the  shivered  pines, 
And  moans  through  the  driving  rain, 

And  whistles  a  tune  in  the  skeleton  vines 
Of  the  time-worn  window-pane. 

He  bends  o'er  his  shadowy  hearth,  and  grieves, 

And  wipes  the  cold  sweat  from  his  brow — 
Hark !  pattering  feet  'neath  the  dripping  eaves, 

And  his  wife's  sweet  voice  so  low ! 
His  absent  children  and  buried  wife 

Come  gliding  in  at  the  door — 
The  sea  of  death  drinks  the  bubble  Life 

And  he  wakes  on  the  unknown  shore. 


WYOMING. 

Morning  was  rosy,  beautiful  and  bright, 
Mantling  the  hill-tops  with  a  crown  of  light, 

Gilding  the  streams ; 

Fast  curling  upward  rolled  the  smoke  away, 
Light-hearted  children  waked,  to  shout  and  play, 

From  pleasant  dreams. 

Lay  God's  own  Volume  open  on  the  stand  ; 
Turning  its  pages  with  a  reverent  hand 

Sat  the  priest-sire ; 

Welled  the  prayer  upward  from  their  hearts  to  heaven, 
To  the  Great  Father  for  the  rest  he'd  given, 

For  food  and  fire. 

Hot  lay  the  sun-beams  on  Wyoming's  hills  ; 
Sparkled  the  bubbles  on  the  clear,  bright  rills 

Over  the  river. 
13 


278  LITTLE  8 HELLS. 

• 

Walked  the  tree-shadow,  as  approached  the  noon  ; 
Chanted  the  river  that  low,  gurgling  tune, 
Chanted  forever. 

Flitted  the  shadows  lightly  orer  the  grain  ; 
Whistled  the  farmer,  sauntering  home  again, 

"  Home,  sweet  home  ; " 
Sang  the  red-robin,  in  the  tree-top  high, 
Plucking  the  cherries  of  his  own  July, 

"  Summer  has  come/' 

Smiling  the  matron  to  the  door  hath  hied  ; 
"  Rest  thee,  my  husband,  till  the  eventide, 

Come  in  and  rest ; 

See  !  Susquehannah  glimmereth  like  glass, 
Weary  winged  zephyrs  scarcely  stir  the  grass, 
Fresh  from  the  West. 

"  Sheltered,  the  robin  trilleth  now  her  song — 
Rest  thee,  my  husband,  love,  nor  life  is  long ; 
Toil  not,  I  say  ; 


WYOMING. 

Bring  thee,  our  daughter,  cooling  milk  and  bread, 
Bring  the  ripe  berries,  and  the  cherries  red, 
Gathered  to-day." 

Smiling,  he  thanks  them,  sitting  in  the  door, 
Prince  in  his  cabin ;  he,  a  serf  before, 

Sad  and  afar. 

Crowing,  the  baby  to  the  chair  creeps  up, 
Lifts  he  the  darling ;  shares  the  babe  his  cup, 

Lisping,  "papa." 


Hark:  was  it  thunder?     No  cloud  doth  appear- 
Hark  ! — 't  is  the  war-hoop,  the  savage  is  near  ; 

Grasps  he  the  sword, 

Shoulders  the  rifle,  and  murmurs  "  Farewell !  " 
Louder  the  fireing,  more  dismal  the  yell — 

"  Trust  in  the  Lord." 

Neighbors  are  arming,  and  fighting,  and  flying, 
Mothers  and  children  together  are  crying, 
Brother  meets  brother ; 


28o  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

Merciless  brother,  his  brother  to  slay — 

Born  of  one  mother,  and  foeman  to-day, 

Oh,  God  !  of  one  mother  ! 

Flashes  the  rifle,  and  whizzeth  the  ball, 
Praying  and  cursing,  together  they  fall, 

Weltering  in  gore ; 

Mothers  and  infants  and  beautiful  girls — 
Streams  the  red  life-current  fast  thro'  their  curls, 

Over  the  floor. 

Red  rain  is  sprinkled  o'er  flower-bed  and  road, 
Carnage  is  weary  of  terror  and  blood  ; 

Setteth  the  sun  ; 

Chanteth  the  river  a  funeral  hymn 
Over  the  sleepers  whose  vision  is  dim, 

Whose  life-work  is  done. 

Comes  in  the  West-wind,  and  plays  with  the  hair 
Of  the  baby  that  crept  to  its  father's  chair 
At  the  hot  noon-tide  ; 


WYOMING.  281 

Lingers  around  them  a  holy  spell — 
Mother  and  maiden  and  babe — 'tis  well — 
Thus  a  Holier  died. 

Flashes  a  light  over  midnight's  brow  ; 
Cottage  and  field  are  consuming  now ; 

Wyoming , 

Ringeth  thy  hills  with  the  orgies  dire 
Of  the  savage  fiends  o'er  their  midnight  fire, 

As  they  dance  and  sing. 


Poet,  thy  dreamings  are  not  all  ideal  ; 
Many  a  "  Gertrude,"  living,  loving,  real, 

More  sadly  fell. 

Oh !  day  of  terror,  and  oh,  night  of  sorrow  ! 
From  fancy's  realm  we  have  no  need  to  borrow, 

If  truth  we  tell. 

Time,  with  his  bleak  winds,  hath  the  valley  swept, 
Sunshine  has  bleached  them,  and  the  clouds  have  wept 
The  stains  away ; 


282  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

Haply  the  farmer  here  his  grain  doth  gather, 
Beauty  and  love  dwell  here  again  together, 
And  Christians  pray. 

But  until  earth's  last  field  is  ploughed  and  sown, 
Her  last  sheaf  bound,  the  last  green  meadow  mown, 

History  will  bring 

Tales  of  the  martyrs  of  the  long  ago — 
Brave  hearts,  yet  peaceful,  as  thy  river's  flow, 

Fair  Wyoming ! 


HONOlt   OF  LABOR. 


283 


HONOR   OF    LABOR. 

You  talk  of  the  "honor  of  labor," 

Looking  down  from  your  windows  so  high 
On  the  sun-darkened  brow  of  your  neighbor, 

With  a  very  benevolent  eye  • 
You  tell  him  that  "  labor  is  noble," 

As  he  turns  the  hard  earth  with  his  spade, 
And  wealth  is  a  troublesome  bauble, 

And  fashions  and  titles  will  fade. 

You  stand  in  the  glow  of  the  forges, 

And  talk  of  the  iron  and  steam, 
You  sing  of  the  snowy-winged  barges 

Which  flit  o'er  the  main  and  the  stream  ; 
You  tell  him  his  strength  is  Herculean, 

That  the  muscles  stand  out  in  his  arm 
Like  the  belts  of  the  upper  cerulean, 

Which  border  the  skirts  of  the  storm. 


284  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

You  praise  his  huge  hand  as  he  lifts  it, 

To  fall  in  its  terrible  might  ; 
The  ore  waxing  hard  as  he  shifts  it, 

The  stars  waxing  pale  in  the  night  ; 
You  talk  of  the  steed  never  weary, 

Which  mocks  at  both  rider  and  rein, 
And  bid  him  be  patient  and  cheery, 

Who  ironed  his  path  o'er  the  plain. 


You  call  him  your  u  friend  "  and  your  "  brother," 

As  you  shrink  from  his  touch  with  your  glove, 
And  haste  from  that  "  hell  "  ere  you  smother, 

Leaving  him  to  wax  cool  with  your  love ; 
You  inhale  the  pure  breeze,  and  are  thankful 

You  can  go  when  you  please  and  can  come ; 
And  count  over  your  treasures,  a  bank  full, 

As  you  sit  on  your  cushions  at  home. 


Yes  labor  is  honest  and  comely 

To  the  drones  which  the  honey  devour, 


HONOR   OF  LABOR.  285 

But  labor  is  care-worn,  and  homely 

To  the  bees  which  improve  every  hour ; 

And  Labor  oft  feels  in  his  pocket — 

He  is  fond  of  good  "  dinners  "  and  "  teas  ;" 

And  his  patience  goes  off  like  a  rocket, 
When  he  can 't  get  a  moment  of  ease. 


Would  you  think  of  the  "  honor  of  labor  " 

If  your  back  like  a  rainbow  were  bent  ? 
You  'd  forget  your  nobility — neighbor — 

When  your  landlord  was  clamoring  for  rent ; 
You  'd  forget  the  renown  of  the  l<  order  " 

Of  labor's  rag-liveried  sons, 
When  the  constable  stepped  o'er  the  border 

Of  home,  with  his  " writs"  and  his  duns. 

Labor  thinks  of  his  wife  and  his  mother, 
How  they  tug  at  the  needle  and  loom  ; 
He  longs,  'mid  the  clatter  and  smother 

Of  the  forge,  for  the  pleasures  of  home  ; 
13* 


286  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

He  thinks  of  the  children  that  love  him, 
Untaught,  and  uncared  for  at  times  ; 

And  he  hates  the  proud  nabobs  above  him, 
Who  pay  him  more  flattery  than  dimes. 


DEACON  IIEZEKIAH. 


DEACON   HEZEKIAH. 

O,  Hezekiah  's  a  pious  soul  ! 

With  his  phiz  as  long  as  a  hickory  pole, 

And  he  would  n't  smile  if  you  'd  give  him  the  whole 

Of  the  gold  in  California ; 
There  he  is,  like  a  cloud,  in  his  Sunday  pew, 
With  his  book  in  his  hand,  in  his  long-tailed  blue, 
And  you  'd  better  take  care  or  he  '11  look  you  through, 

With  a  glance  that  says,  "  I  scorn  you," 

He  is  very  straight,  and  narrow,  and  tall, 
From  his  crown  to  the  hem  of  his  overall  ; 
And  he  sings  the  psalm  with  a  woeful  drawl, 

And  a  mouth  like  a  clam's  when  it 's  crying ; 
But  when  Monday  comes,  he  is  up  with  the  sun, 
His  religion  is  over,  his  work  begun, 
And  you  'd  think  that  there  was  n't  a  world  but  one, 

And  he  had  n't  a  thought  of  dying. 


288  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

You  would  think  he  was  sorry  he  'd  lost  a  day, 
As  he  rushes  and  rattles  and  drives  away, 
As  he  gives  the  poor  orphan  a  crusty  "  nay," 

And  the  widow  a  vinegar  greeting ; 
And  he  bargains,  and  sells,  and  collects  his  rent, 
Nor  tears  nor  petitions  can  make  him  relent, 
Till  he  gets  in  his  pocket  each  doubtful  cent, 

Though  he  would  't  be  seen  a  cheating  ! 

And  Tuesday,  and  Wednesday,  and  all  the  week, 
He  does  n't  know  Gentile,  nor  Jew,  nor  Greek, 
Nor  care  whom  he  robs  of  the  last  beef-steak, 

Nor  the  last  poor  hope  of  fire  ; 
But  Hezekiah  is  pious,  very  ! 
For  who  in  the  world  ever  saw  him  merry  ? 
And  he  looks  as  forlorn  as  a  dromedary, 

And  his  voice,  of  itself,  is  a  choir. 


REV.   JOHN  ELLIOT.  289 


REV.    JOPIN   ELLIOT  PREACHING   TO   THE 
AMERICAN   INDIANS. 


No  roof  was  o'er  him  but  the  arching  sky, 
No  floor  beneath  him  but  the  swelling  turf; 

His  temple  pillars  were  the  mountains  high, 
His  organ  music  was  the  sounding  surf. 


His  calm  eye  rested  on  the  low-browed  squaws 
And  shaven  scalps  that  flecked  the  emerald  sward, 

While  boldly  taught  he  greaj  Jehovah's  laws, 
And  told  the  story  of  our  risen  Lord. 

Proud  Sachems  listened  to  the  wondrous  tale, 
And  dusky  maidens  gave  an  eager  ear ; 

The  stern  lip  quivered,  and  the  cheek  waxed  pale 
That  ne'er  before  was  traversed  by  a  tear. 


290 


LITTLE  8 NELLS. 

Unselfish  herald  of  the  holy  cross, 

Meek  sufferer  for  His  sake  who  died  for  all, 

Uncounted  ever  was  thy  gain  or  loss, 
Resigned  to  linger,  and  prepared  to  fall. 

To  linger  on  in  hunger,  heat  or  cold, 

To  toil  for  aye  through  weary  nights  and  days, 

If  but  one  wanderer  from  his  Master's  fold 
Might  be  in-gathered  to  His  lasting  praise. 

He  did  not  seek  the  pomp  and  pride  of  earth, 
Nor  yearned  his  spirit  for  the  wreath  of  fame, 

He  deemed  them  all  but  poor  and  little  worth, 
Weighed  in  the  balance  with  eternal  shame. 


THE  9BEENBOU8E   I'LANT.  291 


THE    GREENHOUSE  PLANT. 

Into  life  the  young  leaves  crept, 
April  smiled  and  April  wept ; 

Then  came  May ; 
Singing  songs  of  love  and  mirth, 
Spring  went  dancing  o'er  the  earth, 

Blithe  and  gay  ; 

Saying :  "  Let  your  hearts  be  light, 
Morn  is  pleasant,  noon  is  bright, 

Care,  good  day." 

Summer  came  with  deeper  bloom, 
Brighter  colors  crossed  her  loom  ; 

With  liberal  hand, 
Strewed  she  blessings  far  and  wide 
Where  so  'er  the  earth-born  bide  ; 

To  every  land 


292  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

Walked  she  forth  with  stately  tread, 
Rainbows  circling  round  her  head, 
Calm  and  bland. 


Blossoms,  purple,  red  and  gold, 
At  her  genial  touch  unfold ; 

Luscious  fruit, 

Tasseled  corn  and  waving  grain, 
Greet  the  sunshine  and  the  rain, 

Where  treads  her  foot ; 
All  the  sustenance  of  life, 
All  with  shade  or  beauty  rife, 

Take  form  and  root. 

Change  again  o'er  earth  hath  passed, 
Graceful  Summer  goes  at  last, 

With  weary  feet, 
And  a  face  of  paler  hue, 
Gazing,  pensive,  on  the  blue. 

In  slow  retreat, 


THE  ttlWEXUnrsi-:   PLANT.  293 


Musing  on  the  vines  and  flowers, 
Death-doomed,  lingering  in  her  bowers, 
Frail  and  sweet. 


Lo  !  the  grain  is  in  the  sheaves, 
Ruder  breezes  sweep  the  leaves ; 

One  by  one 

Fall  they,  rustling  o'er  the  ground, 
And  we  hear  a  wailing  sound — 

Summer's  gone  ; 
Autumn  with  a  statelier  mien, 
Russet  robe,  and  golden  sheen, 

Fills  her  throne. 

Regal  Autumn  bows  to  death ; 
Winter  comes  with  icy  breath — 

King  is  he. 
On  he  comes,  with  hail  and  rain 

Rattling  on  the  window-pane 
Merrily ; 


294 


LITTLE  SHELLS. 

Spreading  snow-sheets  on  the  hill, 
Locking  up  the  lake  and  rill, 
Ruthlessly. 

Only  one  doth  scorn  his  power, 
She,  a  little  fragile  flower, 

A  wee-bit  thing ; 
Peeping  from  her  house  of  glass, 
Smiles  to  see  the  ruffian  pass, 

Saying:  "  King ! 

Blow  and  whistle,  storm  and  rant, 
Catch  me  if  you  can — you  can  't — 

I'm  safe  till  Spring." 


TO  Ay  ryi\xo\\'y  FRIEND. 


295 


TO    AN   UNKNOWN   FRIEND. 

In  vain  for  thy  image  with  yearning  I  call ; 
Thou  hast  set  for  no  portrait  in  memory's  hall, 
But  the  voice  of  thy  spirit  hath  spoken  to  mine, 
And  I  Ve  answered  its  meaning  in  whispers  to  thine. 

I  know  not  if  thy  forehead  is  white  as  the  snow, 
While  thine  eye,  like  the  eagle's,  is  flashing  below ; 
If  thy  locks  like  the  midnight  are  swept  by  the  wind, 
If  they  're  silvered  by  time,  or  by  agony  thinned. 

But  I  know  that  thy  soul  to  its  mission  is  true 
As  the  seraph's  that  flits  o'er  the  face  of  the  blue ; 
And  thy  love-gifts  are  scattered,  as  globules  of  glass, 
At  the  feet  of  the  heartless,  who  crush  them  and  pass. 

For  the  lot  of  the  gifted  is  on  thee  ;  to  cling 

To  the  hopes  which  are  hollow  as  blossoms  of  spring, 


296  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

Though  a  thousand  betray  thee,  another  to  trust, 
Till  thy  idols  are  numerous  as  atoms  of  dust. 

The  world  hath  dealt  hardly,  my  brother,  with  thee  ; 
For  an  under-toned  anguish  hath  spoken  to  me, 
In  the  voice  of  thy  harp-strings,  which  grieve  as  they  wake, 
And  the  heart  which  doth  sweep  them  is  ready  to  break. 

As  the  mother  bends  over  the  babe  while  it  sleeps, 
As  the  lover  bends  over  the  loved  one  that  weeps, 
As  the  sister  draws  near  to  the  brother,  bereft 
Of  the  dear  one  that  slept  in  his  bosom  and  left. 

As  affection  bends  over  the  bosom  that 's  crossed 

By  the  whirlwind  of  passions,  to  save  it,  ere  lost, 

I  would  soothe  thy  wrung  spirit  by  sympathy's  balm, 

Till  thy  night-dreams  are  sweet,  and  thy  day-dreams  are  calm. 

For  the  kindred  of  spirit  in  spirit  may  meet, 
Though  the  life-paths  be  severed  which  ring  with  their  feet, 
And  the  voice  of  thy  soul  may  yet  whisper  to  mine, 
While  I  answer  its  meaning  in  whispers  to  thine. 


DUSTY  CALIFORNIA. 


DUSTY   CALIFORNIA. 

I  sit  in  a  dusty  corner, 

Of  a  dusty,  though  dusted  hotel, 
And  never  felt  folorner, 

With  so  dusty  a  story  to  tell. 

I  rise,  with  my  arms  akimbo, 
And  gaze  on  the  dusty  street, 

And  under  the  dusty  window 
Walk  men  with  their  dusty  feet. 

The  dusty  women  are  trailing 
Their  skirts  on  the  dusty  way, 

Their  dusty  flounces  sailing 
O'er  gaiters  dusty  and  gray. 

The  dusty  urchins  are  strolling 
Along  to  the  dusty  schools, 


298  LITTLE  SHELLS. 

And  clusty  vehicles  rolling, 
Are  drafted  by  dusty  mules. 

The  trees  are  dusty  and  sombre, 
The  meadows  like  dusty  straw ; 

The  flowers  in  the  garden  yonder 
Are  the  dustiest  ever  I  saw. 

Dust,  dust  from  the  roof  to  the  cellar 

From  the  church-steeple  down  to  the  pave  ; 

There  is  nothing  so  white  but  it 's  yellow, 
And  nothing  so  gay  but  it 's  grave. 

Dust,  dust  over  hillside  and  prairie, 

Dust,  dust  throughout  Aprils  and  Junes, 

With  an  August  as  hot  as  Sahara, 

And  September  winds  hot  as  simoons. 

If  ever  I  see  California 

From  the  veil  of  her  dustiness  free, 

Of  the  absence  of  dust  I  '11  inform  ye. 
And  the  things  then  apparent  to  me. 


HOME   TO   THE  SICK. 


HOME   TO   THE   SICK. 

The  invalid  sits  in  a  cushioned  chair, 

In  a  richly  furnished  room ; 
Through  graceful  drapery  steals  the  air 

With  its  soft  ^Eolian  tune ; 
White  fingers  have  parted  his  raven  locks, 

And  smoothed  them  over  his  brow, 
And  the  faithful  nurse  on  tiptoe  walks — 

What  more  could  he  have  just  now  ? 

The  skillful  physician  comes  smiling  in, 

And  pronounces  the  danger  passed, 
As  he  counts  the  beats  in  his  wrist  so  thin, 

Saying:  "Science  has  triumphed  at  last." 
But  the  invalid  thinks  of  that  distant  fold, 

Where  friendship  was  never  bought, 
And  the  voice  of  the  stranger  sounds  harsh  and  cold, 

For  he  knows  that  he  loves  him  not. 


300 


LITTLE  SHELLS. 

He  thinks  of  his  mother,  who,  far  away, 

Doth  pray  for  her  absent  child, 
Or  his  own  sweet  wife,  who  day  by  day 

Hath  wept,  till  she's  almost  wild. 
And  he  turns  with  distaste  from  the  morsel  sweet, 

Which  is  brought  by  the  nurse's  hand, 
And  yearns  for  the  hour  when  his  weary  feet 

May  turn  back  to  his  native  land. 

Oh,  the  wildest  paths  of  the  wide,  wide  world, 

With  our  hurrying  steps  may  ring ; 
We  may  shout  where  a  flag  was  never  unfurled, 

The  name  of  our  country  and  king. 
In  classic  groves  we  may  proudly  tread, 

And  our  home  be  the  world  as  we  roam  ; 
But  when  flutters  the  pulse  and  swims  the  head, 

We  have  but  one  dear  little  home. 


t* 


